


Poetry Nights

by ImagineBeatles



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Minor Character Death, Drug Use, I'll be adding tags to this when necessary, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mary McCartney passed away from cancer and Paul has a hard time dealing with it, Mental Health Issues, Miscarriage, Poetry, Relationship Issues, not between John and Paul, this was supposed to be a happy fic, yeah that didn't work out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2018-11-02 13:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 54,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10945617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImagineBeatles/pseuds/ImagineBeatles
Summary: 21-year-old Paul McCartney, who has recovered from a mental breakdown due to stress and his mother’s sudden, unexpected death, has recently moved to London where he now rents a cheap flat with his friend George. Having needed to give up his medicine studies, he has decided to start over and go to art college instead where he meets the rude and troublesome John Lennon, a young poet, who, much to Paul’s dismay, also happens to be his neighbour.





	1. In which an art students meets a poet

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the McLennon Big Bang 2017! This was initially supposed to be a happy modern setting, university au fic, but that didn't really work out, although most of the angst and sad things have all happened in the past. I'll try my best to keep it light-hearted otherwise. 
> 
> There is going to be a total of 7 chapters, which I will post randomly because I'm well-organised like that. I hope you'll like it and don't be afraid to leave kudos and comments because they keep me alive (which I need to be if you want me to write more). I'll be adding tags when needed. 
> 
> Also, I'd like to make clear that I'm not an expert on mental health issues, nor have I had any myself (thankfully). Paul has had a mental breakdown, mostly induced from stress because of his mother passing away and other issues in his life. Although he has recovered, this will obviously still affect him. I don't mean to offend anyone and if you have any comments on how I represent anything, let me know, but please be polite. Thank you! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not, nor do I claim to, own The Beatles and I do not make money from this. It's purely meant to entertain.

Although he had not initially intended to spend his first weeks as an art student at the library, it was where he most often found himself after his classes and during his free mornings and afternoons. Because the semester had only just started, the library was practically empty most of the time, save for the occasional over-enthusiastic, over-ambitious student who was already cramming for tests that were still weeks if not months away, and writing essays about topics that had not even been properly discussed yet in class, sitting with their noses buried in books with such flimsy paper, that it looked like it would tear if handled in any way but with the utmost care. There was something “uncool about spending all your days at the university library, making time-tables, revising notes, studying texts, writing essays, and cramming for exams, that made most people want to stay away from such places as much as possible, not wanting to be considered “one of those people”. Paul would have done the same, that is, if he had cared at all about what was and was not considered “cool”, which obviously he didn’t. Not one bit. At all.

Truth be told, he enjoyed the library. It was quiet, peaceful, filled up to the ceiling with books containing fascinating information about curious topics and ideas he did not yet know about, there was free Wi-Fi, plenty of spots to plug in your phone or computer when needed, and, most importantly, no one to bother you by asking annoying questions or playing Guitar Hero at an ungodly volume, while stuffing their face full with potato crisps and diet coke, wearing nothing but a pair of plain, light blue boxers that looked suspiciously similar to a pair you owned yourself and would burn the next time you saw them. On the second floor they had opened a coffee corner where you could grab a cup of tea, coffee, or hot chocolate, along with some (cheap!) sandwiches, cookies, and other snacks (they even had vegan options), of which Paul took full advantage. They had also put down a couple of old battered couches for people to sit on, and honestly Paul could not imagine why anyone would want to spend their days anywhere else, except when they did have normal roommates with at least a sense of common decency.

At the moment he was sitting at a table on the third floor, rearranging his time-schedule in order to fit in his morning classes as well as his first assignments and regular homework, while still leaving him time to go on a forty-minute run every morning through the park that was not even five minutes away from the flat he and George shared. He had his new MacBook Air – a present from his father – open in front of him and had his wireless earphones – sadly not a present, but an expensive impulse buy he had yet to regret – planted firmly in his ears in the hope to block out all the outside noise as he listened to The Kinks singing Strangers directly into his ear, a memento from his and George’s first traditional movie night that would happen every Friday evening for the coming three years that they would be living together. They had watched The Darjeeling Limited, the perfect combination of comedy and drama with a nice aesthetic and good music, and just weird enough to be highly enjoyable and intriguing. It had been George’s pick, which meant Paul was allowed to choose the next one, which just _had_ to be The Dead Poets Society – he was already looking forward to it – after which he was going to make George watch The Graduate because he hadn’t seen it and that, in Paul’s eyes, was a cultural sin if there ever was one.

A couple of rapid taps on his arm alerted him of his neighbour, who was sitting opposite him, drinking tea and stealing some of his veggie crisps as she revised her class notes on the fundamentals of dramatic text. She was a great girl, really. Stunning, with fair skin, long copper hair that cascaded down over her narrow shoulders – a shade that matched the colour of her painted lips – and kind blue eyes that shone brightly beneath her fringe that was bordering on the edge of being too long. But she was clever and funny too, with a mouth that was fouler than what he had initially expected, and a confidence that would have made Paul believe she was a professor rather than a first-year student, if it wasn’t for the fact that she was far too young to be one, being not yet nineteen. She was a great friend.

“I’m going out for a smoke and get myself another cup of tea. D’you want anything?” she asked as she stood up from her seat, fumbling around in her bag in search for her phone, cigarettes and lighter, and cursing at herself when she couldn’t find the latter. Paul, realising he had been staring, declined and offered her his own lighter, which he took from the pocket of his denim jacket.

“Thanks. I’ll be right back. Mind my bag, yeah?” She didn’t wait for Paul to nod or reply, and turned around and started heading towards the stairs, her heels clacking rhythmically on the synthetic floor as she went. Sighing, Paul reached for his own phone and checked his messages. Apart from a text from George asking him if he could swing by the store for some milk before he went home – they had run out again – there was nothing. It wasn’t so much that he was expecting something, but he had hoped to see at least one message from Dot, not having heard from her for a few days. The number of messages that normally went between them had started to decrease more and more over the last couple of weeks, especially since he had moved to London for his studies, which would usually warrant _more_ messages. The thing was, though, that he wasn’t sure if he truly missed her. George said they needed some time to work it out, but lately he was feeling less and less certain of that, which made him feel even worse for not talking to her more often like he should.

Putting away his phone, he turned back to his time schedule and made some minor changes to is as he finished his tea, before he decided to do some reading for the following week, hoping that if he could get most of it done today, he would have the weekend off to relax and do something fun. George wanted to go out and live the student life like it was supposed to be lived according to every single movie in existence; so, naturally, Paul hadn’t been able to say no to that, being in the mood for getting drunk and enjoying the tantalising sight of hot boys and girls in sexy, tight outfits, even if he could not touch. Some harmless flirting was always fun.

He had barely gotten through the first two sections, however, or the peace and quiet that surrounded him was rudely broken by some loud shouts and laughter, which he could hear even through the music that was still blasting in his ears. Annoyed, he took out his earphones and glanced up to see a skinny lad – a little older than himself, but shorter and more fragile-looking – being slammed into a wall, laughing loudly as he struggled to hold onto a stack of papers he was holding in his arms. Some of the papers slipped from his grip anyway, despite the boy’s best efforts, and landed scattered on the floor. He shouted something at where he had emerged from, and knelt down to pick up the papers again as he wiped some tears from his eyes, which were covered by a pair of tinted sunglasses.

Not long after a second guy appeared from that same direction. He was taller and tough-looking, wearing a pair of tight black jeans, the ends of which he had flipped over once, a green plaid shirt with a leather jacket – faux leather, Paul hoped – and brown boots. He had a pair of glasses on his nose that reminded Paul of those Buddy Holly used to wear, and his brown hair had been styled into a tousled quiff, both of which, under any other circumstance but this one, he would have found incredibly attractive. He was laughing loudly as well and pushed at the smaller lad’s shoulder, causing him to lose his balance and fall down again, the paper slipping from his fingers once more.

Rolling his eyes at them, he turned up the volume on his computer and went back to work, but found it had become increasingly more difficult to concentrate on the words he was supposed to be reading, the sentences being too long and containing too many complex words, that he found his thoughts drifting away and his eyes towards the two men who were still causing trouble on the other side of the room. He considered telling them to be quiet, but decided not to, knowing these types of guys from when he had still been a teenager in Liverpool, where he had had to deal with guys like this on a regular basis in school. They thought they were too cool for anything and better than everyone else, and there was nothing you could say or do that would not end with either you running away or being punched in the eye. Being bisexual hadn’t much helped in school either, and he preferred to stay away from them now, not wanting a repeat of last time.

The curious thing was, though, that rather than being disruptive for the sake of being disruptive, these guys did seem to be doing something, namely bothering people and handing them those papers the lad with the sunglasses was holding in his arms, most of which were rather creased at this point, but neither of them seemed to care. They also laid some of the sheets on empty tables and in stacks between books on the bookshelves, which made Paul curious to know what they said. The two guys, on the other hand, did not seem to take any note of him, so Paul kept to watching them silently, hoping they would not spot him. Especially the taller guy, who had a pair of thighs that made it extremely difficult not to stare at him. He shouldn’t. He had a girlfriend.

“Chocolate cookies were twenty percent off, so I got you one as well,” a voice suddenly spoke next to him, making him jump in his seat and quickly look away from the two guys who were bothering a couple of girls a few tables away from him, and glanced up, only to be hit in the face by said chocolate cookie that had been thrown his way.

“Thanks…” he muttered in reply, half annoyed, half grateful, “you could’ve just given it to me, though, Jane, but injuring me works fine too, I guess.”

“Don’t be such a baby and accept the free food, will you,” she replied and sat back down on the chair opposite him. She smirked when Paul did as she had said without another word and began to eagerly take it out of the packaging; he harboured a deep love for anything chocolate that was too strong to be denied.

“Jane?” he asked after a few seconds, pausing from munching on his chocolate cookie, “do you know those guys?” He pointed at the two men who were still talking to the same two girls, one of whom looked intrigued, while her friend had turned away to try to read her book again. She couldn’t, however, as the taller lad with the quiff was now poking her book, while the other chuckled, but tried to get him to stop. Jane groaned in annoyance as she caught sight of them.  

“You know them?”

She moaned, but nodded. “You get to know them soon enough. They’re kind of hard to ignore. Well, John is. Stuart – the one with the sunglasses – he isn’t that bad, really. He’s quite sweet when you catch him alone, artistically talented too, and his girlfriend, Astrid her name is, is a nice enough girl, but when he’s with John…” She shook her head and turned to glance over her shoulder to look at them. “I don’t even know what they’re doing here! Probably just trying to cause trouble again as always – John! Leave them girls alone!” She shouted that last directly at the two men, who looked up in confusion before a flicker of recognition flashed across the taller guy’s – John, Paul now knew – face and a grin spread across his lips.

“Miss Asher! My beautiful water nymph! What are you in the library for? Classes have barely even started yet!” he cried out, in a tone that was a little too melodramatic to be truly funny, but Paul could not help the grin that involuntarily appeared on his own lips. The guy jumped off from the table he had been sitting on and nudged his friend to tell him to follow him, that same mischievous grin still on his lips.

“Don’t bother with the niceties, Lennon. They won’t work, as you well know. And some of us do actually work hard, in case you didn’t know. Which begs the question what _you_ are doing here,” Jane called back at him, as she watched them come over.

“Ah! That’s where you are mistaken, my dear. I value my studies highly. Just not in Nerd Central,” John replied with a charming wink when he was close enough and turned to look at Paul, who was watching him with interest, wondering where Jane would know a guy like him from. He did not appear to be anyone whom Jane or her friends would be acquaintances with. And what was this “water nymph” business? “But never mind that,” John continued after a brief moment of silence, “who is this handsome guy you’ve brought along, eh? New boyfriend?”

“I’m Paul. And we’re just good friends,” he quickly brought in before Jane could answer for him. He really was handsome, though, with almond-shaped eyes that shone darkly from under his thick-rimmed glasses, a strong jaw, and an aquiline nose. His hair, Paul now saw, was more auburn than brown and had a reddish shine to it as the light hit it, making it hard for him to look away.

“Good. I’m John. This is Stu,” he nodded at his friend and paused for a moment as he took a second to look his new acquaintance up and down, as if unsure how to place him. “You look familiar. Those eyes… they’re quite distinct.”

“Impossible. I just moved here a few weeks ago. I’m a first year.”

“You don’t look like a first year. Couldn’t you find the door or something?” John said with a jeering laugh, but Paul wasn’t so easily intimidated and cocked his head at him as he leaned back in his chair, trying to assert some dominance, which made the other’s eyes flash dangerously.

“Studied medicine before this, actually,” he explained calmly, “back in Liverpool. I quit during my first year, took a gap year afterwards, and now here I am.”

“Why? Subject too hard for you, pretty boy?”

“No. I found out that if I became a doctor, I’d be bound by oath to help stupid pricks like yourself as well, and thought I’d do more good for this world if I didn’t.”

“Oh, kitty’s got claws, doesn’t she?” John crooned and Paul started at his words, feeling a flush creep up to his cheeks, which he fought to repress. Before he could come up with a good comeback, however, Jane had mingled between them again.

“Do you want anything, Lennon? If not you might as well just leave,” she said, and John tutted at her in disapproval, but kept his eyes firmly onto Paul’s, looking at him with a gaze so intense, it made Paul squirm in his seat. He refused, however, to look away.

“Don’t worry, Miss Asher. We don’t plan on staying. Me and Stu here were simply giving out some flyers to advertise our monthly poetry night. You two want to come?” As he said this, reached for the stack of papers in his friend’s arms and laid two of them down on the table for them. Curious, Paul took one, while Jane ignored hers.

“You already know my answer, Lennon,” she said and John nodded with another one of his dramatic sighs.

“And it will not be the same without you, my dear, as you well know. How about you then, Doctor Big Eyes?” he asked, turning once more to Paul, who had been reading the flyer.

“You’re a poet?” he asked instead of answering, ignoring the uncreative insult. John nodded as he bowed to him.

“John Winston Lennon, your most humble and ingenious juggler of words, at your service,” he said in a not-so-humble tone of voice. Paul ignored him and looked back at the flyer in his hand. Although the design was rather cliché, with a vintage mic on the front and a red theatre curtain in the background and the usual cursive font, it looked pretty well-made. At the bottom of the flyer he could see John’s and Stuart’s names in bold cursive letters, as well as two others he had never heard of.

“You don’t look like a poet,” he remarked, throwing the man’s own words back at him, as he glanced up at him and awaited his reaction. Sure enough, his lips twitched in annoyance and his hands bawled up into fists, but he failed to look truly intimidating.

“Well? Are you coming or not?” John asked through gritted teeth, clearly ticked off by his talking back at him. “It’s this coming Thursday evening from 8 till 11 at the café next door to here. You can either listen or perform your own stuff, if you even have any. There’s cheap booze as well.”

Paul shrugged as he offered him his flyer back. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he said as if that explained everything, and turned back to his book which still lay open in front of him, hoping the guy would leave. It was probably for the best the guy proved to be a total dick, though it would have been nice to meet a hot guy who didn’t act like a jerk of once. He supposed George was right, his taste in men _was_ despicable, and he shouldn’t make that same mistake again. To his luck, John did as he had hoped and snatched the flyer from his hand, before turning around to leave, grabbing his friend by his wrist to drag him with him.

“Think it over sometime, Paul. Maybe you’ll change your mind. See you around, Miss Asher,” John grumbled bitterly and with that, the two men left, heading straight towards the stairs, which they hurriedly descended.

“Is he always like that?” Paul asked once he was certain the two men were out of earshot, keeping his eyes on them for a second longer, before he turned to Jane who was looking at him thoughtfully, one eyebrow raised.

“No,” she said after a moment of consideration, “normally he’s worse.”

***

The troublesome poet remained on his mind for the rest of the afternoon, despite Paul’s best efforts to forget about him and do his reading like he was supposed to. The thought of him even followed him into the supermarket and onto the bus home, leaving him restless. He didn’t know why but for some reason he was doomed to only find guys attractive who were total assholes, and John Lennon was one of them, it seemed. He was terribly good-looking, and Paul could always appreciate a guy who wrote poetry or did anything artistic like that – he wrote songs himself, which he considered a type of poetry in itself, so it would have been great to have someone with whom he could share that passion – but, of course, the guy had to be an utter douchebag. It was a curse and terribly unfair.

As he mulled over his tragic fate in his mind, he climbed up the stairs to the fourth floor where his and George’s flat was situated, the lift being out of order again, as it always seemed to be. The shopping bag felt heavy in his hand, having bought not only the requested milk (two cartons, mind you), but also some frozen veggies, a couple of bagels, and two bottles of apple cider, as well as a package of jelly beans for George, having figured he might as well, and he felt a great sense of relief once he finally reached the right floor. Taking his keys out of his schoolbag, he momentarily put both bags down and opened the door to his flat, where he was greeted by the unpleasant smell of old pizza and beer, as well as some loud and obscene curses, which told Paul the gaming tournament hadn’t yet ended. Sighing, he heaved the bags inside and kicked the door shut before making his way into the living room where his suspicions were confirmed as he saw George and his friend Ringo sit on the edge of the couch, playing Mario Cart. At least now they were dressed, which Paul considered a blessing. Ringo appeared to be winning, having a smug and relaxed grin on his face, his bright blue eyes twinkling in delight, while George only cursed at the screen and called out various colourful profanities as he once again drove over a banana peel.

“I see you guys are having fun,” Paul muttered as he put his schoolbag down on the floor and reached into the shopping bag to get out the jelly beans which he threw into his friend’s lap, who cried out in joy.  

“Jelly Beans! Thanks, Paul! You’re the best- Oh fuck!” Hastily, he turned back to the race, where he had just knocked into a wall, causing Ringo to burst out laughing as he easily manoeuvred past the last of the obstacles and crossed the finish line first, much to George’s frustration, who looked like he was about ready to throw his controller out of the window.

“I hate you!” he grumbled at Ringo, and punched him in the stomach in revenge, causing the poor man to double over, though he kept on laughing, seeming okay.

“Rematch? I’ll even let you pick the track,” Ringo suggested, and George narrowed his eyes at him, but gave in anyway and ripped the package of jelly beans open. He muttered something about needing something extra to help him along, and stuffed a couple into his mouth.

“Don’t eat too many, Geo! I’ll be making dinner soon! Richie, you’re having dinner with us, right?” Paul warned as he began to kick off his shoes while checking his phone for any messages from Dot, but when George grumbled something inaudible back, he knew it was already too late.

“Don’t worry, Paul. I don’t think you can overeat when your stomach has been replaced by a black hole,” Ringo said, laughing, which he quickly regretted when George hit him again. He, once again, doubled over again and gripped his stomach, while George continued to munch on his jelly beans. “I was going to let you win, you git, but now you can go fuck yourself for all I care. I’ll come help you later, Paul. First, I need to ride George off the fucking Rainbow Road.”

“What?! You said I could choose! I suck at Rainbow Road!”

“Exactly,” he concluded and with that he selected said track, just to spite him. Paul chuckled at their bickering, and, shaking his head, grabbed the groceries and started to make his way to the kitchen to prepare dinner. He was in the need for some good food, which at the moment meant some simple pasta with tomato sauce, because it was easy and quick to make and not too expensive, which were the three crucial ingredients of good food when you were a poor student living away from home, who spend way too much money on other things, such as clothes and pretty editions of books and LPs. Besides, pasta was simply delicious and no one could tell him otherwise.

Once he had put the groceries away, washed his hands and got some water boiling for the pasta – a mixture of penne and fusilli because they didn’t have enough of one kind – Ringo, who had once again been victorious, judging by the angry shouts coming from the living room, came into the kitchen to help. Paul made him cut up the onions, tomatoes and other veggies, while he himself made the sauce and grated some cheese to go on top. They had almost finished when George came in, a couple of jelly beans stuffed in his mouth and a piece of paper in his hand.

“Macca? What’s this?” he asked, waving it around above his head to catch his attention. Paul frowned when his eyes landed on the flyer, recognising it immediately.

“How did you get that?”

“It was sticking out of your bag. I’ve heard about these poetry nights. They’re pretty good, or so they say. Are you going?”

“No. Some asshole gave me one, which I _handed_ _back_ , damn him! He must have secretly put it in my bag when I didn’t notice. Ugh!” Paul took the flyer from his friend, which he crumpled up and unceremoniously threw into the bin.

“But I thought you liked pretentious shit like this. You know, listening to snobby, edgy, emo kids reciting their amateur existentialist poetry and all that. If you don’t have anyone to bring along…” George offered, staring at his friend, as if unable to belief he would say ‘no’ to anything like this.

“It’s not _always_ like that, George. There’s some stuff that’s really good! And it’d be fun to go, but not if it means running into _that_ _guy_ again. You wouldn’t say this if you had been there, you know. The guy was a real asshole and I already told him I wouldn’t come, so who knows what he’d think or say when I’d show up anyway! He’s bound to be there…”

“Who cares!”

“Well, I’m not going to let him have that satisfaction!”

“You’re seriously going to let this guy ruin a fun evening for you? That doesn’t sound like you. So what if he’s there?! You don’t have to talk to him, do you? And if he does start bothering you, just tell him to stuff it! Besides, it’d be good for you to do something fun and relaxing and go out for once. Even Dr Collins told you so, remember?”

“I don’t need some shrink to tell me when I should and shouldn’t be having fun, Geo. Besides, Dot and I always meet on Skype Thursday evening, so I couldn’t go even if I wanted to. Let’s just forget about it, okay. Dinner is ready,” Paul concluded and with that the conversation had ended. The three of them all got their food and George made sure to grab them all something to drink, before they headed back into the living room and took a seat on the couch. Ringo let George pick something for them all to watch, which Paul supposed was reconciliation for having beaten him so often at Mario Kart and whatever other games they had played that day, and soon they were watching telly and having their dinner while George and Ringo spoke about all sorts of things, such as George’s new super-hot girlfriend, Pattie.

Paul mostly kept out of the conversation and sat quietly on the other side of the couch, staring at his food as he ate, not feeling in the mood for any social interaction all of a sudden, which happened from time to time. The telly was loud, but he ignored it, and thought about Dot. What was she doing? Why wasn’t she texting him? Did she still look as pretty as she had done when she had wished him goodbye at the train station? Was she happy? Was she waiting for a message as well? Should he text her? Or was she busy with other things? Did she have someone else? Shaking the thought of her from his mind, he instead forced himself to talk to his friends, needing the distraction.

“Hey, Geo? Did you manage to talk to our neighbour yet?” he asked once George and Ringo stopped talking for a moment. He couldn’t have chosen a better topic, for as soon as the word ‘neighbour’ passed his lips, George sat up and went off into a tantrum, that made Paul grin in amusement.

“No! The bastard has been out all day! Or he won’t open up, which would make it even worse! Like, I’m starting to doubt there’s even anyone living there, to be honest. Who is out that many times a day?! It’s ridiculous! But of course, for some reason he does manage to find the time to steal from us! Fucking bastard,” he grumbled, and angrily pricked some pasta onto his fork to get some of that frustration out of his system, which made Paul feel somewhat relieved their neighbour wasn’t home right now with his friend being in a mood like this.

“Wait someone has been stealing for you guys?” Ringo asked, eyes wide in surprise. Paul opened his mouth to explain, but before he could, George had thrown down his fork and was already talking at a speed that made it hard for the other two of follow what he was talking about.

“Yes! Someone has been _stealing_ our internet. I am certain of it, because our connection has been incredibly slow lately and when I looked at the device list of our router, I saw some unknown device on it – dirty name, of course. Me and Paul have been asking people about it for over a week now, and we still haven’t found the guy! The only person left is our neighbour, but he never seems to be home, which I think is _highly_ suspicious!”

“He is like a ghost. All we hear is music coming through the walls at ungodly hours. A bang or two is usually enough to get him to shut up, though, but he never answers the door. George sees that as an admittance of guilt,” Paul brought in with some intense nodding on George’s part. Ringo, however, didn’t seem to impressed by the serious crime that was being committed right under their noses.

“So? Just change your password,” he suggested and Paul grinned at him as he shook his head.

“We’ve tried that.”

“Multiple times,” George added, “it’s like he can read my mind or something!”

“Well? Who is your neighbour?” Ringo asked and both Paul and George shrugged.

“We’ve never seen him. According to the neighbours it’s a guy, but they’ve never spoken to him. Descriptions don’t go much further than that. They’ve only even seen him in the dark when he comes home.”

“We might need to call the landlord if he hasn’t been seen by the end of the week. Before something starts to smell, you know,” Paul suggested and George agreed with a voice that sounded a little _too_ excited about the prospect, while Ringo only chuckled, muttering something about them having wild imaginations, which Paul couldn’t deny.


	2. In which drugs succeed where poetry fails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second chapter of this fic. It's been ages, I know, but it's extra long, so enjoy :) Please let me know what you think! 
> 
> The two poems in this chapter are actually written by John and can be found in his book In His Own Write.

As the end of the week drew nearer, Paul and George were glad there hadn’t been any strange smells coming from the neighbouring apartment, which meant, as George grudgingly concluded that Thursday evening during dinner, that their neighbour was simply a prick who was very much alive and living of their internet connection for free. Music was once again blasting through the walls, and Paul recognised the opening bars of Elvis’  _All Shook Up_ immediately, which he figured accounted for something, seeing as a guy who listened to Elvis couldn’t be all bad. George, on the other hand, didn’t agree and grumbled some more curses to himself as he pricked a potato tart onto his fork. He glared at it before stuffing it into his mouth.

“You know, instead of sitting there grumbling to yourself, you might as well knock on his door and confront him if you’re that worked up about it,” Paul remarked as he watched his friend in amusement. It was rare to see him worked up about something silly like this, as he was usually a relatively calm and peaceful person. Paul always found it interesting when something happened that made him react this way. He even kept a list, which at the moment consisted of three things that Paul could prove ticked him off: video games, people stealing his food without asking, and internet stealing neighbours. According to Ringo, littering was another one, but he hadn’t seen George react to that yet himself, so it wasn’t on the list; he needed that proof first.

“I’m not worked up about it,” George contended, ignoring the “oh really?” look Paul shot him in response. “Besides, I’m not going to let that prick ruin my dinner. I’ll talk to him after.”

“If he’s still there…”

George didn’t reply and continued to aggressively put food in his mouth as he stared at the wall that separated their flat from their neighbour’s, as if glaring at it would magically fix everything. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t, and after dinner, once he had gathered enough courage to try to talk to him –  two times he had come back without having even knocked on the door –  their neighbour had already left again.

“Perhaps he really is a ghost?” George suggested once he had returned from his defeat. He eyed the same wall again, suspiciously this time.

“So, what d’you want to do? Call the Ghostbusters? Or go ghost hunting ourselves? I’m in if you are.”

“Well, considering this might finally prove ghosts exist, we should at least film it, whatever we do. We’ll go viral in no time. Especially with all your Instagram followers to share it with.”

They had little time to make any definite plans, though, as not long after the doorbell rang, causing George to cry out “Pattie” in a high pitched, overly excited voice, his face lighting up. Paul had never seen his friend’s mood shift so drastically and in such a short period of time as in that moment. Before he knew what was happening, George had hurried into the hallway to open the door, not wanting to let her wait any longer than necessary, and soon after sickening sounds of murmurs and kisses drifted into the living room, which were quickly followed by the sounds of heels clacking on their oak-coloured parquet flooring, as well as a cheery “hiya”, which Paul guessed had been directed at him. They had only been together for a month and already they spent more time together than he and Dot had done during his last week in Liverpool. Although perhaps that was more illustrative of his relationship with Dot than George and Pattie’s. Turning around, he saw the two lovers emerge from the hallway.

“You alright?” Pattie added and smiled kindly at him as she took off her light blue grey coat. She draped it over the back of their couch and got her phone from her bag before she put the latter down on the floor by her feet and took a seat on the armrest of the couch. George meanwhile headed into the kitchen to get her something to drink, playing his newly acquired role of good and caring boyfriend as well as Paul had expected him to, while Pattie checked her messages and used her camera as a mirror to fix her hair, which had become ruffled by the outside wind, tying it up into a bun without any effort. Paul took a seat next to her.

“So,” he said, figuring he might as well try to entertain her while she waited for George to come back, “you and George still doing well, then?”

“Oh yeah. He’s a great guy. Though, I don’t think I have to tell you that, do I? Seeing how long you’ve been friends. It’s kind of impressive! I barely know anyone from when I was thirteen. How about you, though? George told me you and Dot… well…”

“You two talk about me?” Paul interrupted, raising an eyebrow. Pattie grinned.

“Only good things, I promise.”

“Such as my highly troubled relationships?”

“Exactly. Besides, I need to keep up with all the drama now George is taking me to meet you guys. If there are going to be tense moments and sudden arguments about literally nothing, I at least need to know who, what and why, don’t I?”

Paul chuckled and nodded.  

“I suppose. But we’re alright. I mean, it’s not like we’re not fighting or anything, and I’m calling her tonight, but… It’s been kinda different, I guess, since the mis- since I moved here, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Up to a certain point… It’s never easy when someone you care about moves away. I hope it works out though. From what George told me, she sounds like a great girl.”

“She is,” Paul agreed, and although he knew she was and that he ought to consider himself lucky to have her, there was something nagging it him while he said it. Pattie, who appeared to be aware of his conflicted feelings, was kind enough to change the subject and started talking about her new classes and lecturers, for which Paul was grateful. She was a nice girl; he could see why George liked her.

He still remembered the moment when George had first mentioned her. It had been last December, when George had come back to Liverpool for Christmas, and had spent some time with him as well. Although he had tried to be considerate at first and had asked him how he had been doing, how Dot had been doing, and if he hadn’t been getting any stupid ideas in his head – to which Paul had responded it wasn’t that kind of a thing - he soon hadn’t been able to hold back any longer and had shoved his phone into his face. “Isn’t she gorgeous?” he had asked him as he had bounced excitedly up and down on his bed. A picture of a pretty blue-eyed blonde with a button nose and bunny teeth had been displayed on the phone, but Paul had been too dumbstruck to keep up with his friend’s excitement. He had barely gotten the time to answer, or George had gone into a tantrum about how great she was, how kind and sweet and stylish, how soft and melodic her voice, how fair her skin, and elegant her fingers, what her major was – fashion, with a focus on tailoring – what she did for a living – she was a waitress – and what her favourite kind of muffin was – carrot cake muffins – all while barely pausing to breathe. It had been a welcome distraction at the time, but he hadn’t seen any merit in the crush. How wrong he had been.

They spoke for about a minute longer until George returned, carrying two glasses of coke, one of which he handed to her, accompanied by a kiss on the cheek, to which she responded with a look that could only mean one thing. Flustered, George turned back to his friend.

“We er… we’ll be in my bedroom if you need us. Just er… well… you know, make sure you knock before coming in, yeah? Or don’t come in at all. That’d be preferable.”

“Don’t worry, mate. I’ll be having my own little date with Dot, remember? Just keep the noise down and you won’t see me all evening,” Paul said with a wink and smirked when he saw George’s cheeks flush pink in response. Before any of them could say anything more, George was roughly taken by the arm and dragged into said bedroom. The door slammed shut behind him, after which another thud followed, as well as some light feminine giggling and a low surprised groan. Paul didn’t need much of an imagination to know what was going on in there.

Grinning to himself, he stayed true to his word and finished cleaning the dishes, before he got himself a beer and a chocolate bar, and retired to his own bedroom as well. The room itself was small, being a little over two meters wide and three long, but it had everything he needed. His single bed stood at the opposite end of the room, fitted perfectly against the wall and beneath his window, leaving no more than an inch of space at either side of it, next to which he had a small bedside table with a record player. If left little room for anything else, but Paul didn’t mind. He could still use the windowsill, which was, in fact, easier to reach when he was watching Netflix in bed. His desk stood opposite the bedside table, pressed against the foot end of the bed, which allowed him to easily twirl around to flip the record when he was studying. His acoustic guitar and bass hung above it, within easy reach and surrounded by his Polaroid collection. And lastly, seeing as he hadn’t any room left for a full on wardrobe without feeling like he was sleeping in a closet, he had a simple clothes rack on the other end of the room, which he may or may not have taken from the street. It made the whole place appear more spacious than it was. On top of that, everything was coloured white, except for the geometric blue rug beside his bed and some other blue and golden accents, such as his pillows, curtain, lamps and wall decorations, as well as the large mirror that hung on the back of his door, the rim of which he had sprayed golden. It wasn’t much, but to Paul it felt like home, which was the most important thing.

He put his beer and chocolate on the windowsill by the bed, and plugged in his laptop, which he placed in the middle of his bed, leaving enough space for him to sit behind it, his back pressed comfortably against the numerous pillows he had propped up against the wall. Checking his phone, he noted it was only a quarter past seven, which meant he still had about forty-five minutes before he would need to call Dot on Skype, so he decided to watch half an episode of  _BBC Sherlock_  to pass the time. Occasionally, he would hear giggles, groans and moans from the room next to his, often followed by some shushing noises from George.

“Shh! Paul will hear us,” he’d say, before he erupted into a fit of giggles himself, which were far louder than the ones before. Nonetheless, it made Paul smile.

Once the digital clock on his computer read 8.00 pm, he logged in on Skype and checked his Instagram while combing his hair and straightening his clothes as he waited for Dot to come online, needing to look presentable at least. From time to time, he would click back to see if he had perhaps missed a notification saying she was online, but the little grey ball besides her name remained grey.

Twenty minutes passed like that, switching between different windows, and with every minute Paul became both more worried about whether something had happened to her, as well as more angry, although he felt ashamed to admit it. They had a date! She was supposed to be there, or at least let him know if she couldn’t make it! In the end, he decided to call her, but before he could, his phone vibrated in his hand and a message from Dot popped up onto the screen.

**Dorothy <3**:  _Srry. Can’t make it. Got stuck at work and some asshole stole my bike so Steve is driving me home. I’ll call you later. X_

Groaning, he messaged an “ _Okay :(_ ” back, before he threw his phone aside and let himself fall back into bed with an exasperated groan. He had no idea who Steve was, but he didn’t really care either, so he put on some music on his laptop, before rolling over onto his side to stare out of his window and watch the rain like he always saw sad teenagers do in the movies. He began to feel worse, which he didn’t think was the intended purpose of whatever he was doing, and rolled over so he was facing away from the window instead, which kind of helped. The sounds coming from George and Pattie’s room had gotten louder as well, and more explicit as time went on. It began to annoy him now. He changed the music to some ABBA with his toes and turned up the volume, which usually managed to cheer him up a little, but it did not appear to help this time – even  _Super Trouper_  sounded sad. Despite this, he left it on.

“George!” he could hear Pattie cry out from the other side of the wall, followed by even more giggling. George didn’t even shush her this time, which was just plain rude. Sitting up, he had a look around the room, wondering what else he could do on this lonesome Thursday evening while pretending not to listen to his best friend shagging his girlfriend in the other room, but he couldn’t see anything in particular that struck his fancy. That is, until he noticed a crumbled up piece of paper lying next to his school bag. Curious, he crawled out of bed and picked it up. It was another flyer of that poetry night thing that John guy had invited him to. But… hadn’t he thrown it into the bin? How did it get here? Determined to solve the mystery, he sneaked out of his room, went into the kitchen to check the bin and found the old flyer still visible beneath the rotting left over food. The bastard must have slipped multiple flyers into his bag. He looked back at the flyer in his hand. That cunt, he mused, and continued to stare at it, his eyes lingering on the address.  

“Fuck it,” he finally decided, and hurried back into his room to change into something more suitable, gather his things and make one last stop at the bathroom before going out. George and Dr Collins were right, he did need to go out more and have fun, and listening to some amateur poetry while drinking away any thought of Dot did not seem like a bad night. Besides, George had said these nights were fairly popular, so chances were slim he would ruin into that John guy again. He needed to live a little.

***

The cafe mentioned on the flyer was easy to find, being situated right next to the university library as he vaguely remembered John saying. He had never been inside, but he doubted it was any different from the usual overcrowded student cafes with their ridiculously overpriced coffees, extensive easy-listening playlists, and tiny uncomfortable wooden chairs which people assured him were just “quirky”. Besides, going into a cafe meant social interaction, awkward social interaction to be precise. George and Ringo were enough social interaction to deal with on a daily basis.

Stepping inside, though, the place looked different from what he had imagined. It was busy, as expected, but not overcrowded, the place being larger than it appeared on the outside. It was narrow but long, with a stage at the far end with doors on either side leading through to the bathrooms. The inside was decorated in that vintage, industrial style people seemed unable to get enough of nowadays, with its old timber flooring, brick walls, fake iron beams that served no structural function whatsoever, and old furniture, most of which looked like it belonged in a classroom from the nineties. At least he had been right about the uncomfortable wooden chairs, although the leather couches lining the walls looked relatively comfortable. The bar itself was placed at the front of the cafe for a change, allowing for as much space as possible by the stage for people to sit and even dance if they felt like it. It was nice.

As per usual, he ordered himself a scotch and coke and took a seat at an empty table a little further away from the stage than what would’ve been ideal, but it was close enough to be able to hear the person on stage without having to strain your ears. At the moment a girl with dark hair and dark make-up was sitting on the bar stool that had been placed on the ragged stage for the occasion, reciting her poetry into the old fashioned mic that stood before her. She was about the same age as he was, and although her poetry sounded like it came from an edgy nineties movie, it worked for her.

He took out his phone to check whether Dot had tried to call him yet, but there was nothing. Unsure if he was disappointed or not, he put his phone on silent and slid it back into the pocket of his jeans, deciding tonight he was simply going to have fun and not worry about anything else, just as Dr Collins had told him to do. That dusty git better be happy with him about this. He took a large gulp from his drink and turned back to listen to the girl. Amateur poetry was always better listened to drunk.

As the night dragged on and Paul consumed drink after drink, while amateur poet after amateur poet ascended the stage for their ten minutes of fame, Paul began to feel more and more relaxed to the point where he actually began to enjoy himself. His troubles seemed far away and unreachable, while his greatest concern appeared to be the words of poetry coming out from the poets’ mouths. After every half an hour, there was a 5-minute intermission with some light jazz music, so people could go to the bathroom, talk to their friends and get themselves something to drink, while Paul mainly took the opportunity to take out his notebook and make some notes on things he had found inspiring, always making sure to sign each individual note with the correct time and the date. On occasion he was spotted by some people he knew from class, after which a quick exchange of words followed, but mainly he stuck to himself as he drank, wrote and listened. That is, until a familiar voice called out to him, causing him to tense up as he eyes darted around the room looking for an escape. There wasn’t any. God, why did it have to be  _him_?!

“What a surprise to see you here, bright eyes. Decided to come after all, huh?” Slowly, Paul turned around to see John Lennon standing a couple of feet away from him by the bar, surrounded by other people who he guessed were his friends. He snatched his bottle of beer from the counter, excused himself for a moment to said group of friends, and came over to him, that annoying grin of his plastered across his face. Without a word, he slid into the empty seat at Paul’s table and took a swig of his beer as he looked him up and down, taking him in. Paul forced himself not to look away as his eyes finally came to rest on his. It was only when he caught John squinting at him that he realised he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Disappointing, he thought.

“Didn’t think you’d come, actually,” John said, his voice low and grumbling. He leaned in closer and Paul retreated right away as he caught the strong whiff of cigarettes and alcohol that surrounded him. God, he’d kill for a smoke right now.

“Are you performing too, then?” John pressed on and Paul shrugged in response.

“I take it you are?”

John eyed him for a moment, but before he could answer, the announcer did it for him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, before we continue,” he said, his voice more serious than it had been all evening, “Mark has asked me to tell you to please stop smoking in the bathrooms and go outside instead. Oh, and we’re not responsible if any of you get arrested for possession, just FYI. Thank you. Now, up next is our very own John Lennon! John, come on up, mate!” The guy, whose voice had suddenly regained its energetic nature, smiled broadly as he beckoned John over, his arms open wide in a welcoming gesture. John shot Paul a wink before he slid out of his chair and stumbled towards the stage, half-empty beer bottle in hand. He was clearly overdoing it, but the crowd laughed anyway.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Good evening, good evening,” he mumbled in what was admittedly a quality Elvis impression, and put the bottle down next to the microphone before he slid onto the bar stool, that same grin still on his face. Taking a little black notebook from the pocket of his leather jacket, he cleared his throat and began to read as if he was reading to a child, but much creepier. It took Paul by surprise.

> _I’m a moldy moldy man_  
>  _I’m moldy thru and thru_  
>  _I’m a moldy moldy man_  
>  _You would not think it true_
> 
> _I’m moldy till my eyeballs_   
>  _I’m moldy till my toe_   
>  _I will not dance I shyballs_   
>  _I’m such a humble Joe._

It was a silly little poem, but Paul found himself smiling at it nonetheless, enjoying the childlike rhythm and nonsensical words. At least the guy was witty. He took another sip from his drink to hide his smile as he noticed John’s eyes sliding over towards him, but he seemed to look right through him and winked at him, causing Paul’s cheek to heat up in something he could not quite define. He rolled his eyes at him in the hope to come across as unimpressed, but his smile would not leave his lips, no matter how hard he tried. Finally, after far longer than Paul had been comfortable with, John’s eyes left his and he turned back to the rest of the audience to crack another joke before reciting another one of his poems. This time he put on a different silly voice, making sure to roll all his Rs and keep his voice a lower register, to the point where it sounded like he was doing a bad Scottish accent.  

> _Thorg hilly grove and burly ive,_  
>  _Big daleys grass and tree_  
>  _We clobber ever gallup_  
>  _Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me._
> 
> _Never shall we partly stray,_  
>  _Fast stirrup all we three_  
>  _Fight the battle mighty  sword_  
>  _Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me._
> 
> _With faithful frog beside us,_  
>  _Big mightly club are we_  
>  _The battle scab and frisky dyke_  
>  _Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me._
> 
> _We fight the baddy baddies,_  
>  _For colour, race and cree_  
>  _For Negro, Jew and Bernie_  
>  _Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me._
> 
> _Thorg Billy grows and Burnley ten,_  
>  _And Aston Villa three_  
>  _We clobber ever gallup_  
>  _Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me._
> 
> _So if you hear a wonderous sight,_  
>  _Am blutter or at sea,_  
>  _Remember whom the mighty say_  
>  _Deaf Ted, Danoota, and me –_  
>  _(sometimes we bring our friend, Malcolm.)_

He actually managed to get a real laugh out of him with that final line, for which Paul now hated him. But he did like his poetry, however much it hurt him to admit it. It reminded him of those Lewis Carroll poems he used to read as a kid. He had loved them at the time and had often stayed up all night reading them in his  _Alice in Wonderland_  books, covers thrown over his head, flashlight in hand, ready to pretend to be asleep as soon as he’d hear his mother’s footsteps on the landing.

He had been so lost in his memory that when John looked at him again, he forgot to hide his smile until it was too late. To his surprise, John lit up at the sight and bowed his head to him in what appeared to be an over the top way of saying “thanks”. His third poem was a longer one and Paul didn’t like it as much as the last one, but he still clapped when John finished and was ushered off the stage by the announcer with a lot of hassle, getting the crowd to laugh again.

“So,” John said as he slid back into his seat at Paul’s table, shooting him a knowing smirk as he took another swig of beer, finishing it, “what did you think?”

“Eh… it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected,” Paul replied with a shrug, and looked back at the stage where another young man had taken his seat. He looked like he was about to throw up, poor lad, but Paul understood. He hated performing for a crowd, even though he loved it at the same time. But to see all those eyes on you, watching you, judging you, waiting for you to mess up so they could laugh at you, he couldn’t get used to it.

“Fuck off! I know you liked it. I saw you smiling.” John nudged his side with a knowing smirk. Paul, however, ignored him and pretended not to hear him as he listened to the man on stage, who sadly wasn’t very good. John nudged him again to get his attention. He nodded at the notebook that lay well-protected under Paul’s arms.

“Is that your work?” he asked. Instinctively, Paul moved it further out of John’s reach.

“No…?”

“So that’s a yes, right?”

Paul ignored him again, which seemed to frustrate John, who let out a sigh in response. A few seconds passed before he nudged him again.

“You want another drink?” he asked, gesturing at the empty glass Paul was subconsciously fingering. He glanced down at it and shook his head.

“No, thanks.”

“It’s on me.”

“Yeah… Still no.”

“I don’t buy people drinks often, you know. You should be grateful.” John pressed on, but Paul once again declined. Annoyed, John leaned closer to the younger man, purposefully invading his personal space, so Paul was forced to look at him.

“Listen,” he said in his ear, his voice softer now, “I know I was a prick last time, okay? I just…” he paused for a moment, as if thinking about what to say, and looked Paul deep in the eye, before continuing. “I tend to be a prick to beautiful people.”

Paul blinked at him a few times as he let those words sink in. In the end, he burst out laughing.

“Is that a pick up line?”

“Only if it’s working,” John replied with another wink, and Paul laughed again as he shook his head in disapproval.

“You’re unbearable.”

“It’s my speciality. Now, how about that drink, then? Anything you want, on me.”

Paul regarded the other man for a while, and was once again struck by how handsome he was, with his slight stubble, his square features, his roman nose, and artistic hands that were gently teasing his glass from his fingers, edging him on. His dark brown eyes pierced into him and Paul found himself accepting the offer, albeit reluctantly.

“Alright then. If that’s what it’s going to take to get you to stop bothering me about it. Scotch and coke, would be grand,” he said, his gaze darting down to the other’s lips as he caught sight of a hint of tongue sliding over said lips. When he looked back up, John was watching him with an almost fond expression.

“Grand,” he repeated with a lopsided smile, his tone more affectionate than mocking, “I’m going to get you a beer.” Before Paul could say anything in response, John reached over between his arms and snatched his notebook from him before he got up and fled to the bar, leaving Paul momentarily dumbstruck behind. Cursing, he grabbed his jacket and bag and followed him.

“Fucking asshole,” he muttered to himself, but an amused smile played on his lips nonetheless.

It was easy enough to catch up with him at the bar, most people having taken their seats, and managed to snatch his notebook back without much trouble, John barely given any resistance as Paul pulled the red leather book from his arms.

“Calm down, princess. I wasn’t going to read it.”

“Sorry that I don’t trust you just yet, Han Solo.”

“Han Solo, eh? So, you think I’m ruggedly handsome?”

“I think you’re an arrogant, untrustworthy bastard, that’s for sure,” Paul said, turning away from him to lean against the bar, hoping John would not see the blush that had begun to appear on his cheeks. The light in the cafe was dimmed, so he should be fine. He could see John smirk from the corner of his eye as his gaze burned into him.

“I can live with that,” he said. Paul thought of something clever to say in reply, but had his thought process interrupted by the barman sliding them two bottles of beer. John handed one of them to him.

“Thanks,” he said, eyeing his drink, “still would have liked a scotch, though.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, I want you to meet a few people.” Without another word John started heading towards his group of friends. They had taken up two of the couches and were all drinking beer and laughing with each other as they talked and handed different pieces of paper around. They were artsy types, most of them dressed in black with some bright pops of colour and fancy patterns, and from the sound of their accents, Paul guessed at least a couple of them were German. He didn’t know why, but he followed John, his notebook clutched to his chest.

“Guys, this is Paul. Paul…” he didn’t bother introducing them properly and just waved into the general directions of his friends, before he flopped down onto an empty spot on the couch. Tapping the space beside him, he motioned Paul to do the same. He complied. It was tight squeeze, but he managed and tried to ignore the way John’s thigh was pressed against his own. He at least did not seem to mind, so Paul decided he didn’t either and drank from his free beer.

“So, what your major, Paul?” one of the supposedly German guys asked. He had a camera hanging from his neck and was wearing a leather jacket much like the one he had seen John wearing last Tuesday.

“Art history,” he answered, taking another sip from his beer. The guy sat up in surprise.

“Oh! You must know already know Klaus then. He’s a bit older than you probably, but he’s still taking some electives. Maybe you guys have had the same class once,” he said, nodding at a guy one the other couch, who, luckily, was just out of hearing range. Paul grimaced as he let himself sink further into the couch.

“I doubt that. I er… I’m a first year,” he admitted, hoping the guy would leave it at that and not pursue the issue any further. He winced when the guy cocked his head at him.

“Yeah. Paul studied medicine before this, didn’t you Paul? Could’ve become a bloody surgeon. But who needs a high paying job when you can sit home alone eating pretzels at two in the morning with a useless degree in your pocket instead! Right Paul?” John said, and Paul blinked up at him in surprise, before he smiled thankfully and nodded. Maybe he wasn’t that bad after all?

“Oh I hear that! Nice to meet you, Paul. I’m Jürgen,” the German guy said and they shook hands before he turned back to his camera. A blonde girl sitting next to him smiled at Paul, before she too turned to look at her friend’s camera, whispering things in his ear in German as she pointed stuff out to him on the tiny screen. Despite his German classes in secondary school, Paul couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying.

“So,” John said, leaning in closer as he looked down at the notebook that lay in Paul’s lap, “you going to show me your work, then?”

“Don’t think so, Lennon,” Paul said, pretending not to notice how close he and John were now; he could feel his warm, beery breath on his face, but this time, he did not try to move away. John, however, didn’t give up that quickly and shot him another smirk, making Paul wonder if he was always this unrelenting. He stopped that train of thought before it drifted into dangerous territory.

“You can’t come to a poetry night with a notebook and expect to come out unharmed. Come on, I’m curious. You heard my work,” John said, nudging him again. Paul, however, wasn’t quick to give in either.

“Yeah, but you weren’t peer pressured into it.”

“Every artist is forced to share their work, Paul. It’s our obligation as the messiahs of Art and Truth. Now come on. Just one. I won’t laugh if it’s bad. Too hard, that is.”

“Ugh fine.” Reluctantly, Paul handed him his notebook. “It’s er… it’s not like your work, though.”

“What? Not as good?”

“They’re not… poems, really. Well, they are but… they’re more like songs, I guess.” He waited in fear as John started to skim through his notebook, pausing on every page to read and look at his doodles. From time to time he would pause for longer to read one of his works in its entirety, only to hum in a manner that made it impossible for Paul to discern whether it was positive or negative. He wished he would just bloody say something.

“And?” he asked, when he couldn’t wait any longer.

“You’re so… organised,” John remarked with a chuckle, showing Paul one of the pages as an example. Although it was full of information, lines, symbols, and different colours, all of which appeared to indicate something, it looked neat and well-organised, just as Paul wanted it. His neat and handwriting only emphasised it, as did every little box after every entry, stating the date, time and place of when he had written it down, as well as what type of entry it was, the options being general, observations, inspiration, words and phrases, names, music, artwork, and miscellaneous, which yes, was different from the general category. There was a legend on the very first page. “I thought doctors were supposed to have crappy handwriting.”

“Failed that course. That’s why I needed to stop. It was unsalvageable. Can’t have a doctor with neat handwriting,” Paul said and John laughed at that as he turned back to the notebook.

“They’re good songs, though! I like the _In Spite of All the Danger_ one. Written for anyone in particular?” Paul flushed at the question, clearly this time, because yes, it had been, and what a mistake that guy had been. He and John were kind of similar, although John was wittier and… sweeter? Oh god… He took his notebook back and closed it before putting it away in his back, safe and out of sight.

“You don’t have to lie, you know. They’re all bad, I know they are. I’m not a lyricist. Melodies are more my thing. And painting,” he said, refusing to answer his question. But if John’s smirk was anything to go by, he already knew more than Paul wanted him to.

“You paint?”

“Yeah. I do abstracts mostly. Kind of like Picasso, but worse.”

“You’re too hard on yourself. I just know they’re brilliant.” He sounded genuine and Paul only just managed to keep his lips from curling up in a smile. His hands felt sweaty as he looked up at John, his eyes lingering at his lips, before moving on to his eyes. They shone amber in the dimmed light of the club.

“I’m just aware of my strengths and weaknesses.”

“Well, maybe you should play me one of your melodies someday then, Mr Melody Man.” Paul barely knew what to say. He jumped as he felt a hand on his thigh, hot, firm and grasping. He needed to pull away. He had Dot, he needed to pull away, but why didn’t he?

“Say,” John said as he leaned in close, his voice almost a whisper, “what about we blow this joint and then each other?”

Paul nearly choked on his own spit.

“Excuse me?!” He could not have heard that correctly, but John’s eyes and grin said differently.

“You heard.”

“I er… I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“Is it serious?”

Paul was silent for a moment, stunned by what John was proposing. His gaze darted down to where John’s hand was still grasping his thigh, hot and unrelenting, while his thumb rubbed circles on his skin through the rough material of his jeans. It felt good. But he was with Dot, had been for almost three years now. She had always been there for him, especially last year when he had been struggling with his mental health, as well as many other stressful, life-changing issues. She had always come to him when he had needed her, and answered the phone when he had called, be it during work or at four in the morning. She had been there for him, had supported him, despite her own issues, which had been about to become their issues. It wasn’t strange they had been having problems since all that had ended. He couldn’t betray her. Not even now. Not for a simple hook up.

“It… Yeah, it is,” he answered, and looked away from the other man.

“Pity…” John said. Paul sighed in relief when he took his hand back.

For a moment it remained quiet between them, the momentum of whatever it was that had started to develop between them lost. Paul didn’t know what to say and had been about to get up and leave, when John moved first.

“You want another beer? I’m still buying if that matters.” Paul considered the offer for a moment, uncertain, but John did not seem like the type to keep failed hook ups around if that was all he wanted from them. He also knew he shouldn’t drink too much more, the alcohol already having taken effect on him: his movements had begun to slow and his defences were lowered considerably. Moreover, he still needed to get home, which meant a twenty minute walk through London if he missed the last bus, but he accepted the drink anyway, feeling that whatever friendliness he had managed to achieve with John depended on it.

“I’ll be right back,” John said with a half-hearted smile. Paul watched him walk away, before he  leaned back in the couch and closed his eyes for a moment as he let out a deep sigh.

“He likes you, you know.”

Opening his eyes, he saw the blonde girl from before looking at him. She was sitting closer now and her friend appeared to have left. Paul glanced at the bar, where he could see John  talking to the barman as he waited for their drinks. The girl followed is gaze.

“I’ve known him for a while,” she said, bringing Paul’s attention back to her. “He’s different around you. In a good way. I’m Astrid, by the way.” She handed him a smoke he hadn’t seen she had been holding. Then again, he hadn’t noticed much about what had been going on around him during his conversation with John. The poetry night itself appeared to have ended, the announcer was sweeping the stage and most people had left, leaving only John and his friends and four or five others, two of which Paul was certain was staff. He politely declined her offer.

“I’ve quit, actually,” he said. Astrid giggled as if he had said something very funny, and only now Paul noticed the unpleasant, yet familiar smell that hung in the air.

“Different kind of cigarette, Paul,” she told him with a wink.

“Right…” He took the joint from her and studied it for a moment. It had been a while since he had last smoked pot, the last few times not having gone too well, but that had had more to do with other things in his life than the actual drug.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to smoke inside,” he said before taking his first drag. The pot burned in his throat, pleasant and familiar. God, he had missed this almost more than tobacco. Astrid shrugged.

“The night’s over. We’re basically the only ones left. Mark, the guy who runs this place, doesn’t actually mind as long as we offer him some too. He’ll probably be here soon,” she said and Paul took another drag before handing it back to her. She took a drag as well and together the shared the joint as they spoke about nothing in particular. It wasn’t long until John came back.

“You two seem to be having fun,” he said, handing Paul his drink. He sat back down on the couch, though he kept his distance this time and left a gap between them. “You’ve got another?”

Astrid nodded and started rolling another one, which she handed to John, who thanked her with a wink. Paul felt his heart sink at that, wishing it had been him who he had winked at. But he knew he had no right to be jealous. He had been the one to turn him down, after all, and even if he hadn’t, it wasn’t like they would have been exclusive. And he doubted the wink had been romantic or sexual in nature at all. He took another drag to calm his nerves and closed his eyes as he slowly blew out the smoke, relishing in the feeling of all the tension leaving his body, while his brain clouded over in a comfortable haze. It was good stuff.

He, Astrid and John spoke about nothing for a while as they smoke and drank, enjoying their haze as it started to kick in. It was peaceful and quiet. George had been right about him going out more; this was the best thing he could have done all evening.

“You didn’t strike me as the guy who smoked pot, though, Paul,” John remarked after a while and Paul turned his head to look at him. John had moved and was now half lying on the couch, his legs throw up over the back of it as he sucked smoke into his lungs. He looked positively blissed out and relaxed, his free hand resting in his lap. Paul chuckled happily.

“There is a lot about me that you don’t know,” he said mysteriously.

“Enlighten us then, eh, Paulie. How did you get into it?” John pressed on and Paul felt his chest tighten at the nickname. He leaned back on the couch and  let his head rest against John’s legs as he turned his head to look at him.

“Kinda had a boyfriend in secondary school who had the right connections. Must have been what? Sixteen? He introduced it to me. He er… said it made the er… sex really good.”

“And?” John enquired, raising his head from the armrest to look at him. Paul grinned and shrugged, causing wolf whistles to erupt from both Astrid and John.

“Naughty boy,” the latter half-moaned, thrusting his hips up into the air, though Paul supposed it was only his blissed out mind that made it appear in any way sexual, as John probably just moved to make himself more comfortable. Not that he particularly minded. If he couldn’t touch, he might as well look, right? God, it was hot in the room, though. A little too hot for comfort if you asked him. He tried to take another sip from his beer, hoping it would refresh him, but it was already empty. He let it fall to the ground with a groan.

Far away, he could catch snippets of John and Cynthia’s conversation, but was unable to focus on it. Groaning, he rolled onto his side and pulled his legs up on the couch as he rubbed his forehead into John’s legs. His eyes started to hurt so he closed them.

“You okay, Paul?” he could hear someone ask him. He shook his head with a moan. “Come on, lad. Let’s get you some fresh air. Astrid, watch our stuff while we’re gone yeah? That’s it, Paul, careful now. Put on your jacket, it’s cold out.”

Paul did as John said, although he barely registered what was happening. He felt John’s hands on his body, helping him up and move. His body, however, didn’t feel like his own, but disconnected, as if it wasn’t him who was controlling it. God, what was happening? He realised he was walking and suddenly he was outside. It had gone completely dark, and the air was chilly, but still made him feel a little better. He clung onto John as he was taken into a nearby alley, where he was lowered onto the damp ground to sit. John let him slump against the cool brick wall behind him, and knelt down to sit beside to him.

“I don’t feel very good,” Paul said, rubbing his forehead into John’s shoulder as he shuffled closer to him, needing the warmth and comfort of the other person’s body. He barely registered it when John brushed his hair out of his face.

“Do you think you need to throw up?” John asked, his voice quiet and gentle. It was so different from what it normally sounded like, it almost caused Paul to panic. He wanted to cry, but couldn’t.

“No. No, I don’t think so,” he mumbled instead, trying to take deep breaths, and reached out for the other man to ground himself, twisting his hand into his shirt as he let out another groan. A pleasant smell invaded his senses. “You smell like oranges. I normally don’t like oranges.” John chuckled in his ear.

“Better than that weed smell,” he said and Paul chuckled faintly as he pulled away and looked up at the other man. It took a while for him to come into focus, but when he did Paul had a hard time looking away. Above him, he could see the stars, scattered around like tiny little diamonds in a watery black lake.

“Paul?” John asked, He repeated his name when Paul didn’t react. “Paul, you still there?” Before Paul had had any time to think properly, he had leaned up and pressed his lips against John’s. It wasn’t much of a kiss, both of them staying completely still as it happened, but it had been a kiss nonetheless. Neither spoke when Paul pulled away.

“I don’t know why I did that,” Paul said. He frowned at himself and tried to roll away from the other man, but John wouldn’t let him and turned him back to him, needing to keep a close eye on him to make sure he was alright. He smiled when Paul’s eyes met his.

“It’s okay,” he said, but Paul shook his head.

“No. No, it’s not, because I have a girlfriend and you’re an asshole and I kind of want to do it again.” He frowned once more at the words streaming out of his mouth. Being drunk and high at the same time was a weird experience. His stomach churned.

“I don’t feel good.”

“I know, Paul Just keep breathing.”

“I don’t- I- I-” before Paul could do anything to stop himself, or at least move away from the other man, he was heaving forward and emptying his stomach all over the ground and, worst of all, John.

“I- I’m sorry,” he moaned, appalled by his own actions, and tried to pull away, but the world was spinning and that only made him throw up again.

“Goddammit, Paul… No! Don’t fucking say anything! You might throw up again! Ugh… You’re fucking hopeless. Let’s get you home,” John muttered, much kinder and gentler than Paul had expected of him after what he had done. He nodded weakly as he stared down at himself in shame as he grabbed his stomach. “Come on, on your feet. The last bus already left, so we have a bit of a walk to go. Just… tell me when you have to throw up again. We’ll go get cleaned up first. Fucking hell, this is gross.”

“I’m sorry…”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”


	3. In which a cat and a hangover are not a good combination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are with the third chapter! Thank you all so much for the great support on the first two chapters. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter, as well. Love you all!

Paul woke up the following day with a pounding headache and a loudly buzzing phone rattling on his windowsill. It took him a while to realise where he was; the room was too bright to see anything, every ray of light hitting his eyes like a sword that was being rammed through his skull, and whenever he tried to work through the pain and focus, the too-white room began to spin around him, forcing him to lie back down and close his eyes until his body stopped turning. 

Slowly, though, his eyes became better acquainted to the light pouring into the room, and another fifteen minutes later, he was finally able to open his eyes without feeling like someone was sawing open his skull with a blunt butcher’s knife. Looking around, he noticed he was in his bedroom at home. Whoever had put him to bed had forgotten to close the blinds, allowing the afternoon light to shine in unobstructed, and the clothes he had worn the previous night lay in a small pile by the bed, leaving Paul only in his boxers. Moving still proved too much effort, his limbs feeling like they had not only tripled in weight, but had also been tied down to the bed using ropes and heavy stones, keeping him firmly in place. His phone was still buzzing too, and with great effort and another piercing headache, he managed to raise one of his arms and pick it up, putting an end to the horrendous noise. He groaned at the brightness of the screen as he unlocked it, but pulled through to see who kept bothering him. Aside from a few notification from various social media apps, most notably his ever-present Instagram and Snapchat accounts, there were ten messages and eight missed calls, nearly all of which came from one person: Dot. He reluctantly opened the messages first.

**Dorothy <3:**   
_9.08_  Hey babe. Just got home. Gonna take a quick shower. I’ll call you after, okay? Sorry again for missing our date. Love you

_9.36_ Ready! Call me ;) 

_9.41_   Tried calling you. Why aren’t you answering? You still awake?

_9.47_   Paul?

_10.03_   I tried calling again, but you didn’t answer. George told me you’ve gone out. You okay? Pls call me when you read this. 

_10.29_   Paul, I’m really worried. Just let me know you’re okay

_10.37_  George told me I’m overreacting and I hope he’s right and that you’re fine, but call me when you get this, okay?

_00.35_   George said you’re still not home. Please let me know you’re okay

_08.15_   Fuck you!! Thankfully George was kind enough to let me know you’ve gotten home fine or else I wouldn’t have slept all night! Thanks for making me worry, asshole. I’m going to work now. Call me when you’ve slept off that hangover. I get off around 2.

The only other message was from George, sent around 10.40 pm, telling him to call Dot because she kept interrupting him and Pattie, after which he had tried calling him twice at different times, the last one being around half past twelve in the morning. He hadn’t even noticed. God, he was a fucking asshole. He had known Dot was going to try calling him, and yet he had completely forgotten about her; he hadn’t even bothered texting her to let her know he was going out, and had even put his phone on silent and not looked at it for the entire night. That is, for as far as he could remember. Frankly, he barely remembered anything about last night except that he had gone to that poetry reading event, which had been surprisingly fun. He remembered speaking with that Lennon guy, who had turned out to be not as much of an asshole as he had pinned him for, and meeting some of his friends, but apart from that, the night’s events remained fuzzy and out of reach, except for some tiny little glimpses that didn’t mean anything to him on the grand scheme of things. He remembered lots of alcohol, though. What a mistake that had been.

Groaning at the pulsating pain in his head, he checked the time to see it was already a quarter to three, meaning he had slept through most of the day already, much to Paul’s dismay. He liked making the most of his days, even when he was hungover, but at least it meant Dot would be home by now, so he figured he’d call her  and get it over with. He rubbed his forehead to release some of the tension that had build up there, and dialled his girlfriend’s number. She answered almost immediately as if she had been waiting for his call, which, as he regrettably realised, she probably had. God, why hadn’t he just called her? 

“Oh! Look who’s finally decided to call,” Dot called out at the sound of her boyfriend’s voice, not even bothering with a proper hello. She hadn’t cursed at him yet, however, which meant she was at least somewhat happy to hear from him. 

“Dot… I-I’m sorry. I-” Paul started, but Dot wouldn’t hear it. 

“Oh, so you’re sorry, are you?” she remarked, her tone sarcastic, “I was worried about you! I told you I was going to call once I got home, didn’t I?”

“I know! And I  _am_ , but please… could you not shout? I just woke up and my head is killing me,” Paul said with a groan, and rubbed his forehead to relieve some of the pain as another knife was thrusted violently into his brain along with his girlfriend’s words. It shot all the way through his body, down to his stomach, which felt like it was trying to jump out of his throat. Dot, however, was too upset to care about his well-being at this point. 

“You could’ve told me you were going out at least,” she said, her voice still too loud to be comfortable, making Paul whine and close his eyes as his forehead throbbed painfully and his stomach churned. “I don’t need much. A text would’ve done it. But even George didn’t know where you were.” 

“I hadn’t planned on going out, you know…” Paul muttered in response as he rolled over onto his side and away from the light coming in through his window,  hoping it would relief some of the pain he was experiencing, but it barely helped. On the other end of the line, Dot sighed at his words. 

“That doesn’t matter! Paul, I thought you were… I thought… Fuck!” Her voice broke as she said that, and even though she hadn’t finished that thought, Paul knew what she meant. Guilt washed over him and his throat constricted as he struggled with what to say. Rather than apologise, however, like he should’ve done, he said something stupid. 

“Well, you could’ve told me you weren’t going to make our date yesterday a little sooner as well, you know. I waited for almost half an hour before you finally bothered to let me know you were still at work. You think I’m just going to sit in my room all evening and stare longingly out of the window while I wait for you to call me like some stupid archetypal Victorian love-interest? People have been constantly telling me over the past year to go out more and have fun, so that’s what I did. I’m allowed to go out and get drunk if I want to. And who knew what you and that Steve guy were up to.”

“It was busy! I didn’t know what time it was until I got was standing outside of the restaurant. And it’s not my fault my bike got stolen! Steve just offered me a ride because he was heading my way, anyway.”

“Oh, I bet he was thrilled about that.” 

“Don’t you dare, Paul,” Dot shot back, causing another sharp jolt of pain to go through Paul’s skull, making him groan as he grabbed his head and closed his eyes. Then, in a softer voice, she continued, “And it isn’t like that. Steve is Mr Strutton’s son. He just thought it proper to ask because his father asked me and some other girls to stay behind longer because it was a busy evening. And even if he was interested in me, I wouldn’t do that. You know that. You have no right to accuse me.”

“I know! I- God, Dot… I know you wouldn’t. But I would have liked you telling me sooner. And I am sorry. I know you were simply worried. I should have texted you,: Paul said honestly, and nearly let out a sigh of relief as Dot remained silent for a moment at his words. Her silence lasted much longer than Paul had expected, though, and he almost thought she had hung up on him when her voice came again, her tone a lot quieter this time. She almost sounded tired. 

“I just wish…” she started, cutting herself off to take a deep breath and start over, “I’m glad you’re safely at home. That’s the important part. And I’m not mad at you. Not really. I just… call me next time, yeah? We used to call each other all the time and lately… I worry sometimes. You would too, if I-” she stopped herself again, as if she were having trouble finishing that thought. But Paul understood nonetheless and let out an understanding hum in return. “I er… I have to go now. Mum asked me to look after Mrs Benson’s kids. Take an aspirin, drink plenty of water, have something to eat, and take some rest. I’ll call you later.”

“Dot?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“…I love you, too.”

After she had hung up, Paul stared at the screen of his phone for a moment longer, his eyes glued to the background picture of a short-haired blonde smiling back at him with dimples in her cheeks. The sun highlighted her light freckles and made her usually grey eyes appear as blue as the sea behind her. He had taken the picture himself last year during their summer trip to Wales, when everything had still been perfect between them. It seemed years ago now.

Sighing, he threw his phone aside on the bed and got up. His head was still pounding and his stomach churned at the sudden change of position, making him almost throw up. His knees and legs were wobbly under his weight as he stood and he needed to hold onto the walls and objects around the room to guide himself towards the door, onto which he now saw someone had stuck a green-coloured sticky note. There was only one person who used green-coloured sticky notes. It read:

_Paul,_

_There’s a package of aspirins on the kitchen counter so TAKE SOME!_  
_Also, Richie brought coffee with him, so drink some of that too._  
_I’ll be home around 4.30. Don’t be stupid and TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF._  
_You’re an idiot. But I love you anyway._

_George._

_Ps. Please call your girlfriend. She’s blowing up my phone._

Paul rolled his eyes at the note, but that only hurt his head more, so he tore it off, balled it up, threw it into the bin, and stumbled his way into the kitchen to those heaven-send aspirins his friend mentioned, while silently thanking him. Where would he be without him? Probably at home, arguing with his brother Mike over silly, unimportant things. He wasn’t sure which was worse. 

Once inside, he went for the package of aspirins first. He considered taking a handful, but figured George would possibly kill him if he accidentally overdosed on them, so he took the usual two the packaging advised him to take and went to grab himself a glass from one of the overhead cupboards. He filled it with cold water from the tab and let the pills dissolve in it, stirring all the while with his finger, until he was left with a substance that looked like watery milk, and swallowed it all down in one go. It tasted disgusting, and he drank another glass of water immediately after to try to wash it all down. It helped somewhat, but he could still taste the bitterness on his tongue, even after a second glass. His headache, however, was still too bad for him to really care about something small as that, so he ignored it and went to make himself some coffee. Two large packs of freshly grounded coffee stood in the windowsill. They were most likely a present from Ringo, who had gotten a job at one of the coffee houses near them and could take as much coffee home as he wanted. It seemed like he was taking all the advantage he could get from that rule, which Paul figured was a smart move on his part, considering Ringo rarely managed to hold a job for longer than two or three weeks. Though perhaps it was behaviour like this that had something do with it. 

Paul also picked out his favourite mug to drink from - a bright yellow one that George had gotten him for Christmas last year with the words “I’m a happy go lucky ray of fucking sunshine” written on it in fat black letter - which was also not-so-coincidentally the largest one, and sat slumping on one of the bar stools as he waited for the coffee machine to be done and the aspirin to take effect as he played with his mug. The irony of drinking from it now wasn’t lost on him. 

Although Paul did most of the cooking, the kitchen was very much George’s space. It was small, but bright, with a large stretch of windows above the kitchen counters that let in so much light they hardly ever needed to switch on a light except in the winter. On the wall above the breakfast bar hung a large rack with potted plants hanging from them, most of which were holding herbs, such as basil, rosemary, thyme, parsley and mint. He also had a couple of flower baskets hanging outside their windows with edible flowers, and on the windowsill there stood two large pots of tomato and orange bell pepper plants, the last of which didn’t do as well as the other plants, but George wasn’t ready to give up on them yet. The tomatoes on the other hand, were delicious and Paul tried to use them in his cooking as often as he could, much to George’s delight. 

He picked a small basil leaf from the rack to sniff at while he waited for his coffee. Slowly, his headache began to subside. Closing his eyes, he enjoyed the calming prattling sound of the coffee machine and the scent of basil as he rubbed the leaf between his thumb and middle finger. 

Suddenly, though, a loud clash sounded from the kitchen counters, making Paul jump up in his seat, his eyes flying open to see what had happened. His empty water glass lay scattered on the floor next to a dirty knife, but that wasn’t even what bewildered him most. Right there, on the kitchen counter where his glass had stood, sat a multi-coloured calico cat, looking very pleased with herself as she stared at him with her large green eyes. 

“What the…” Paul muttered to himself in confusion, not understanding how she possibly could have gotten there. Their flat was located on the fourth floor, and the only way she could have gotten inside would have been through the open kitchen window. But from where? She couldn’t have come from their building, seeing as their landlord didn’t allow for pets - Paul had asked him that himself when he had decided to move in with George, having hoped he could get a puppy, as he had always wanted one but never had one at home. The no he had received then still hurt now. 

Slowly, he rose from his seat, careful not to scare the cat and chase her away.

“What are you doing here, eh? Come on. Off you trot. You don’t live here.”

The cat, however, didn’t move and only looked at him curiously, as if  _he_ were the strange creature that had invaded  _her_ home, cocking her head to the side as she watched him approach her. The multitude of colours was a gorgeous sight to look at. The orange patches in her fur shone in the light on the sun, offering a striking contrast to the darker patches that covered most of her body, leaving little space for any white. She meowed and extended her neck towards him, as if encouraging him to pet her. 

“You’re a pretty cat, aren’t you? I bet your owner would be very happy to have you back, you know. Come on, girl. Just hop on back through the window,” Paul said gently, ignoring the thumping in his head. He had been about to reach out and carefully push her back towards the window when she let out another, somewhat annoyed, meow and jumped through his arms onto the kitchen floor. Paul followed her movements out of habit in the hope to catch her mid-jump, but failed and swore are his headache came rushing back, making his head pound. He cursed loudly and closed his eyes as he hissed through clenched teeth and curled up into himself. He waited for it to pass, before he turned back around to look for that damned cat again. He spotted her on the breakfast bar, idly licking her paws and showing little regard for the human who stood cursing on the other side of the kitchen. The coffee machine gave a little beep to let him know his coffee was done. 

“Fucking hell,” Paul muttered, and began approaching the cat again, hoping to hurry up and get her this time so his coffee wouldn’t go cold, while making sure he didn’t accidentally step in glass. The cat had originated from hell, Paul thought grudgingly as he tried his best to ignore the pounding in his head and the protests of his stomach. He stepped on tiptoes to make as little noise as possible and extended his hand to let the cat sniff at it first, which she accepted.   
God, why did this have to happen now? They’d never had a cat or whatever else come into their flat before, not even a spider, and now, exactly when he was hungover and standing half-naked in the kitchen with a pounding headache and a churning stomach, he had an unknown cat sitting on his breakfast bar, cleaning herself. 

She sniffed at his fingers once, but then turned and jumped away again, escaping Paul once more. Like before, he stupidly tried to follow her, but it only resulted in another bursting headache and more cussing. 

“Goddammit!” he moaned, rubbing his head, and the cat meowed again, looking pleased with herself as she regarded him from the top of their fridge. Paul shot her an accusatory glance and had been about to try grabbing her again, wanting to go for a swift approach this time, when the doorbell rang, stopping him mid-jump. 

“Just you wait,” he warned as the cat began licking her right paw again. She meowed challengingly in response, as if she had known exactly what he had been trying to achieve and had been thwarting him on purpose just because she could. “Stupid cat,” Paul mumbled more to himself than the cat, and had been about to pull the kitchen door close behind him to make sure the cat couldn’t get any further into the flat, when she slipped past his legs and into the living room. Paul let out an aspirated sigh, but decided to ignore her for the sake of his sanity and stumbled over to the front door.

“Yes? What?” he grumbled as he pulled the door open, only to freeze up in shock as he saw who was standing on his doorstep. 

“Afternoon, Paul. Nice to see you’re still very much alive. I was almost worried, you know,” John said, as he looked him up and down, making Paul painfully aware of his lack of clothes. He was leaning with one arm against the door frame and shot Paul another one of his smug little grins, of which Paul had seen too many that previous night.

“Wh-wha…” he tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come to him. John looked so different from how he was used to seeing him: he was wearing a pair of old, loose-fitting jeans and a white novelty t-shirt with the words “Daddy’s Little Kitten” written on it in cursive, pink letters, that was slightly too small for him. Whenever he raised his arm, his shirt would ride up and reveal a tiny bit of tummy that was far more distracting than it should be. He was bare-footed and his hair hung in loose curls around his face, making him appear more geeky than usual, especially in combination with his thick-rimmed glasses that were resting on the bridge of his aquiline nose. Paul licked his lips at the sight and tried not to blush or stare too much, keeping his eyes glued on John’s. 

“You still hangover, Princess? Not that I’m surprised. You were looking absolutely terrible when I dropped you off last night. You’re lucky your friend was home to look after you.” In a flash, many more memories from last night came rushing back to him, causing Paul to cringe internally and groan in embarrassment at his own stupid actions. He remembered how he and John had gotten drunk and smoked pot together, offered to them by some girl called Astrid, and how John had come onto him, how he had gotten sick and how John had helped him outside to get some fresh air, only to have Paul drunkenly kiss him before throwing up all over him. Twice. And now that same guy was standing at his door wearing the most distracting clothes while he was dressed in nothing but his boxers. Mortified, he shuffled over to the door and pushed it a little further close so he could stand behind it and procure at least some sense of privacy as he fought back a burning blush that was daring to appear on his cheeks, but it was already too late. God, why did he have to be such a stupid fuck up? He couldn’t even hang out with someone without making an ass of himself. 

“What are you doing here, John?” Paul asked, keeping his eyes focused on the other man as not to give away the burning embarrassment he was feeling. What mustn’t John think of him? 

John shrugged. “Just seeing how you were doing. And my cat kinda escaped my flat and ran through into yours through your kitchen window. I thought you might like it if took him back.”

“Wait. That’s  _your_ cat?” Paul asked, and right at that moment another loud crash could be heard coming from the living room behind him, making him wince and hope nothing of too much value had been broken. John scratched the back of his head as he offered Paul an apologising smile. 

“Yeah… he’s a bit of a trouble maker. Usually, I don’t let him out at all, seeing as Mr Walford will kill me if he ever finds out I have a cat. I almost had a heart attack when I saw him go out of the window. Luckily, he went into your flat and not some tell-tale who was going to rat me out.” Paul blinked at the mention of Mr Walford, who was their landlord, and, as it appeared, also John’s. 

“Mr Walford? You mean you live here?” he asked and John snickered as if he said something really stupid. 

“Mate, I’ve been your neighbour every since you moved in here and I’ve been your friend’s neighbour for even longer. But thanks for noticing,” he said sarcastically and the first thing that entered Paul’s mind was that he now finally knew who had been stealing his Internet. He didn’t even have to ask. This guy was totally using their Internet. The second thing was that John listened to Elvis as well. 

“Well,” he said with more sass than he had intended, though he supposed it was probably the hangover, “how could I have known if I hadn’t even seen you here before? It’s not like I can look through bloody walls.” 

“I noticed you, didn’t I?” John immediately replied and Paul was momentarily at a loss for words. Thankfully, right at that moment, something black, orange and white ran between their feet into the hallway and into what Paul now knew to be John’s flat, taking them both by surprise. 

“And Elvis’s back home. You’re not going to rat me out, are you, McCartney?” John asked with another wink as he reached over to close his front door, not wanting his cat to disappear again. Paul smiled at the name. 

“His name is Elvis?” he asked and he could see a slight hint of a blush appear on the other man’s cheek as he nodded. “I like that name.” 

“You into Elvis Presley?” John asked and Paul shrugged. 

“Kinda. A lot. Yeah.” 

“Good. As everyone should. Anyway, you ought to be glad I noticed you, you know. I wouldn’t have known where to go last night if I hadn’t. You couldn’t speak a word without throwing up. Not to mention that you passed out five minutes from our building. You’re heavier than you look,” John said and Paul flushed as the realisation that John must have carried him. Fuck his life. 

“Yeah… Thanks by the way. And sorry about the whole… you know,” he gestured vaguely at John’s clothes, “Too much alcohol and cheap pot probably wasn’t been the best idea I’ve had.” John laughed at that, loudly, and Paul couldn’t help but smile along with him. 

“I could’ve told you that, you know. Anyway, I’ll let you sleep off your hangover now. You look dead grotty, which is a real pity for what’s usually such a pretty face. I have taken up enough of your time as it is,” John said and shot him a wink as he pushed himself away from the door frame. “I’ll see you around, Paul.” He didn’t even give Paul any time to reply and simply turned around and slipped through the door of the neighbouring apartment into which his cat had disappeared only a few minutes ago, leaving Paul standing by the door. It took him a while to realise John had actually left, but when he did, Paul was quick to slam the door shut behind him and took his head in his hands as he scolded himself for being such a fucking embarrassing idiot. Not only had he kissed and thrown up all over his sexy, hot, Elvis-loving neighbour, but that neighbour had actually needed to carry him home as well! What the fuck was his life?!

***

By the time George got home that afternoon, Paul’s hungover state hadn’t changed much. Although he felt less sick and his headaches had lessened in fierceness and become less frequent, he was still living off aspirins and spend most of his time lying half dead on the couch, watching television with the sound muted and his back turned towards the screen, feeling sorry for himself. He was still in his boxers too, though he had pulled on an over-sized shirt and a pair of socks and had thrown a blanket over himself to shield himself from the cold and keep him warm. His phone lay silenced on the coffee table next to a large, almost empty glass of water and a half-eaten chocolate bar. He didn’t even bother lifting his head as George announced his presence, half-eaten doughnut in hand. 

“I see you’re having a wonderful day,” his friend said with a voice that was far too cheery and energised in Paul’s opinion. He put down his half-finished extra large white chocolate raspberry milkshake and box of doughnuts onto the coffee table and took a seat in the only armchair they had to finish eating his doughnut. It had a strawberry cheesecake filling; Paul could smell it from the couch. 

“I thought you had class?” Paul mumbled into his pillow, not even bothering with lifting his head to make himself more audible, fearing that if he would, the smell would only be worse and he’d need to throw up again. George on the other hand didn’t seem to mind the smell, and happily continued eating as he nodded. 

“I did.”

“Then why are you so happy?” 

“I study music, remember? Like, some of the classes are actually fun, believe it or not. Plus, I’m not hungover. Unlike some people.”

“I hate you,” Paul said, but George only looked smugger. 

“That’s what you get for drinking so much. Never mind the pot. For someone who says he’s been smoking weed since he was sixteen, you did make a rather rookie mistake last night, Paul. Drinking and smoking at the same time… and you’re actually surprised you nearly died last night.”

“Fuck off, Geo. I know, alright?” Paul moaned into the couch, but that only caused George to snicker in amusement. 

“What the hell did you even do last night, anyway? I thought you went to that poetry night thing?” 

“I did,” Paul moaned, rubbing his head in the pillow beneath his head, “some girl had weed on her and she offered me some. It was fine at first. But then I got sick and hot and dizzy and the like… that Lennon guy was kind enough to take me outside for some fresh air, but…”

“But what?” George asked, eagerly urging him on. He was enjoying this way too much, Paul thought, but had too little energy to say anything off it. 

“I threw up on him. Twice. And that isn’t even the worst of it,” Paul paused for a moment, not so much for dramatic effect, but rather to make sure he didn’t accidentally threw up again, though it worked both ways, he supposed. “I kissed him too.” 

“After you threw up on him?!”

“No! Ugh, no. Don’t be disgusting. Before that, you git!” For a moment there was no reaction from the armchair, but then, when Paul thought his friend was actually going to be supportive for a change, George burst out laughing. 

“It’s not funny, George!” he objected, but that only caused George to further descend into hysterics. 

“I’m sorry, Macca, but that’s golden! You drunkenly kissed a dude and then covered him in your sick. Twice! Poor guy. He must’ve felt awful, walking around like that. And his clothes… oh, that must have been disgusting!” 

“I didn’t mean for it to happen! God, I don’t even know why I kissed him in the first place! And to make matters worse, he actually had to fucking carry me home as well, and turns out he’s our neighbour too. I’m such a fucking idiot.” 

“Wait! Lennon,  _John Lennon_ , is our neighbour?” George asked, sitting up in his seat at the newfound information. For the first time, Paul turned his head to the side and looked up at him to see George already deep in thought, most likely trying to figure out how to get him to stop using their Internet. Suddenly, his face lit up, and Paul feared the worst. 

“Don’t even thinking about it, Geo. I’m not going by his apartment to ask if he’s been stealing our Internet,” he said and George’s face immediately fell. 

“Ah, but please, Paul! You know him. You’re already on first name basis with him - or first kiss basis, I should say - can’t you just pay him a little visit? You don’t have to drink tea with him or anything. Just… convince him to stop hacking my passwords.” 

“Don’t fucking think so, Geo, so you’d better get that idea out of your head right now.”

“But, Paul!”

“No! I’m not hearing this!”

“Why not?”

“Er… did you not just hear what I said? I threw up on him, twice, which should be reason enough, but then he also has a crush on me. And then this afternoon he came by our door because his cat escaped and I was just standing there, looking like a fucking zombie. A half-naked zombie, I might add. I’m never talking to that guy ever again. What mustn’t he be thinking of me?” 

“He has a crush on you? We could use that. You could-”

“No!” Paul interrupted George before he could finish that sentence, seriously fearing what he might suggest. “I’m not doing it. Not ever. You can visit him yourself if you care so much. For all I care he can use our Internet all he wants if that means I won’t have to see him ever again. I’m not doing it, and that’s the end of it, you hear?” Paul said firmly. George rolled his eyes at his friend and quickly finished the last bite of his doughnut, before leaning close to him. 

“Paul, sweetheart, people have done crazier things than make out with some random guy while drunk. People have thrown up over other people plenty of time before as well. Hell, you’ve done crazier things while drunk. And I’m sure John has too. You’re overreacting! You just got sick. Happens to everyone.” 

“But not all in one night, with the same person… And I wasn’t even dressed when he showed up, either… I’m such a fucking idiot! I knew I shouldn’t have gone to that bloody poetry night thing. It’s all your fault! You told me to go out and live life and shit.”

“I told you to go out and have fun, Paul, not to drink your ass off,” George said laughing, and Paul groaned into his pillow at the noise. He jumped in fright as he suddenly felt a hand come down on his butt cheek, causing his headache to come back twice as bad as before as he threw his head back in a reflex. 

“Fuck, George!” he snarled and reached behind himself to rub his butt and sooth the slight unease that slap had caused, as he buried his face into his pillow again. At least George hadn’t hit him hard, but Paul still felt like killing him for it. George, however, merely winked at him as Paul shot him his best death glare. 

“Stop fretting so much about it, Paul, and go take a shower. You still smell like pot,” he said and slapped him again, this time on the other cheek, before he picked his box of doughnuts and milkshake back up and took it into the kitchen to put them away for later, shouting a cheery “love you” at Paul as he went. Paul grumbled in annoyance, but forced himself to sit up and sniffed at himself, only to revolt at the stench of alcohol, marijuana smoke and sick that was still clinging to him. He smelled worse than Ringo’s sock drawer and he had always thought that to be impossible. Reluctantly, he pulled himself up and stumbled into the direction of his bedroom to grab some fresh clothes and easy-to-wear underwear, before he headed towards the bathroom to do as George had said and take his well-deserved shower. God, he fucking needed one. He hoped John hadn’t smelled him.

Once he stepped under the hot, steamy shower and he could feel the warm water hitting his naked skin, Paul felt his body relax for the first time since he had woken up that morning. He hadn’t noticed how tense and stressed he had been until then and let out a long, content sigh as he revelled the feeling of the hot water hitting his shoulders, massaging him as it washed away the last remains of the previous night. Nothing had ever felt better. 

For a long time, he merely stood there, taking it all in and letting his body warm up as the horrible smells were washed away, and let the water run down his face. Paul had always enjoyed showers, and it were moments like this, when he was simply standing there in the shower without anything or anyone around to interrupt or bother him, that were the most comforting. His water bill had truly suffered his last year as a medicine student. He would often forget the time while in the shower, and one day he had sat there for almost three hours, contemplating his existence, before his roommate had turned the water off and dragged him out of the bathroom. It was simply relaxing and comforting to be alone under a soft stream of warm water where you could stay as long as you liked until even the water didn’t feel real anymore. He wasn’t allowed to do that anymore, though, and he knew George always kept track of how long he had been in the bathroom whenever he took a shower. He understood why, though. It wasn’t healthy. He knew it wasn’t, but sometimes… it was good to have something unhealthy. 

For now, though, he allowed himself to enjoy it and let his worries wash off along with the filth. George was right: he shouldn’t be worrying about last night’s occurrences as much as he was. People did stupid shit while they were drunk or hangover, which is why they had invented those words in the first place, and he wasn’t any different - it didn’t matter. And besides, John hadn’t seemed to mind the state he had been in when he had knocked on his door earlier that afternoon. And what did he care about what that Lennon guy thought anyway? It wasn’t like was going to see him again. Nope. Never. 

Picking up his bottle of shampoo - lavender scented - Paul washed his hair and took an excessively long time messaging it in, before he finally washed all of the soap out the best he could and did the same with his conditioner, before he moving on to washing his body, paying special care to every little bit of skin to make sure he was completely clean. After he had rinsed off completely, he glance down at his cock to see he was semi-erect. He took it loosely in his hand and hummed as he felt a pleasant little tingle at the touch. He considered masturbating, weighing off the pros and cons of either option in his head, and eventually began to slowly stroke himself, sliding his hand up and down his shaft at a lazy rhythm, knowing that if wanted to masturbate today, he had to do it now, as he couldn’t do it in the privacy of his own bedroom due to George’s warped sense of personal space and privacy. He thought of Dot as he worked himself, and pictured the last time they had sex before he had left for London and soon he was softly moaning to himself. Still, he couldn’t really get into it. His thoughts kept drifting away to other things, most of them not even remotely sexual. He couldn’t find the calmness he needed, so eventually, much to his annoyance, he gave up and turned the shower off. He ignored his semi-erection as he dried himself off, and slowly but surely, it went away, allowing him to pull on his clean clothes with ease. He wrapped a towel around his head to dry his hair and make sure he didn’t leak water everywhere.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he saw George sitting on the couch playing another one of his video games while enjoying another one of his doughnuts. He offered Paul one as well as he saw him, putting his game on pause, but Paul quickly refused, feeling his stomach churn unpleasantly at that idea of eating one of those. George shrugged, but continued to look at him with what was undeniable amusement.

“Don’t you dare ask me again,” Paul warned him, and George shrugged innocuously in response, which only made Paul more worried and suspicious. 

“I haven’t even said anything!” George said, outraged, and Paul rolled his eyes at the terrible lie. “However,” George continued a little later, and Paul groaned in annoyance and started heading towards his bedroom, ignoring his friend as he continued the question Paul had already known he would ask, “if you could hop by our lovely neighbour, that would be wonderful!”

“Don’t think so, George. Do it yourself if you’re that worked up about it. I’m going to bed.”

“But, Paul,” George whined, doing his utter best to use the tricks Paul had taught him himself during their first trip together to pick up girls and talk yourself out of unpleasant situations, such as detention and speeding tickets. He even attempted to pull of the pout, but Paul was too acquainted with those techniques for them to work on him. 

“No, George,” he simply said and slammed his bedroom door shut behind him. He sighed a sigh of relief as he let himself fall onto his bed, letting himself sink away in his soft, plushy blankets, hoping he’d never have to get up again. From behind his wall, he could hear Elvis’s voice singing _Love Me Tender_. It was muted and dull, but it was there, and Paul smiled as he rolled onto his back and listened. At least he listened to Elvis, he though, and closed his eyes.


	4. In which Paul is not on a date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is finally here and it's long (like, really really really long) so enjoy! We are now half-way in the story, and we only have three chapters more to go! Personally, I am still loving this fic and I hope you are too (let me know *wink wink nudge nudge*). 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy the chapter. I'll be writing the next chapter of Art and Obligation next before continuing with this one, so get excited for that if you're reading that one too. 
> 
> Love you!

For the following week, Paul made sure to stay away from John as much as possible. He constantly kept an eye out for him, not wanting to run into him in the hallways on his way to class or in more public spaces such as the university cafeteria or the library, even though he doubted he’d be running into him there a second time. John didn’t seem like the type who would willingly spend his time there, unless he had an ulterior motive. 

Even when leaving his flat, he made sure to check first to see if John wasn’t in the hallway before stepping outside, and when he got back, he’d glance around the corner as he walked up the stairs before heading to his flat. George, having caught him doing this twice, thought he was being ridiculous, but Paul didn’t care. He’d rather flunk one of his courses if that meant he would never run into John ever again after what had happened, and would gladly go through the rest of his life without ever seeing him again, no matter what it took. 

So what if George thought he was acting silly? He hadn’t been the one who had drunkenly kissed the most handsome man he had seen in years before throwing up on him twice and needing to be carried home by him because he had passed out. Not to mention that John had most likely been the one who had stripped him of his clothes before laying him down on the bed and pulling the covers up over him. The thought alone was enough to make him want to go back in time and stop himself from ever going to that damn poetry evening. 

Besides, it wasn’t like his strategy wasn’t working. There had been a few times when he had caught glimpses of the other man, either walking down the street or after a lecture in the hallway with a group of friends, and every time he had managed to avoid him. Once he had even forgotten to look before leaving his flat, and Paul could still vividly remember the moment and the fear he had felt when he had thought John had seen him. 

He had been about to take out the trash - it being his turn this week - and, having been too deep in thought about Dot to realise what he had been doing, had opened the front door without looking first like he normally did. Taking a single step outside, he had caught sight of John from the corner of his eye, standing by his door and talking to a friend who Paul didn’t recognise. Paul had nearly dropped the trash at the sight of him. 

He had been as handsome as Paul had remembered him, if not more. He had once again been bare-footed, and had worn a simple pair of tight-fitting blue jeans that made his thighs look great and a slightly wrinkled white shirt. His thick-rimmed glasses had been on his nose again as well, and his hair had looked ruffled and unkempt as if he had just stumbled out of bed despite it being 2.30 in the afternoon, which Paul thought was just unfair. 

As soon as he had regained control over his body - having momentarily lost it as he had stared at the other man - Paul had swiftly slipped back inside and thrown the door shut again with the softest thud possible, before he had slid down unto the floor, hoping John hadn’t spotted him. His heart had been thumping in his chest and for a moment he had been certain John had seen or at least heard him and was going to knock on his door at any moment. But nothing happened. 

He had sat there, on the floor, back resting against the door, bag of garbage between his spread legs, for about fifteen minutes before he had dared to have another quick glance outside. Taking a deep breath, he had put the garbage bag aside and crawled onto his hands and knees to have a sneaky look outside, pulling the door open just enough for him to look around the corner. To his luck, John hadn’t been there this time and Paul had slacked a sigh of relief as he had scrambled up and hurried past his flat and down the stairs, cursing himself for being so stupid, as well as forcing the sight of John out of his mind. He shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. He had a girlfriend. Not to mention that John was a smug bastard, and he wasn’t going to waste his time on those again. It didn’t matter how handsome he was, or how soft his lips had been, or how witty he was, or how caring and sweet when he had looked after him, or that he listened to Elvis, or wore horrendous and suggestive shirts that Paul was still thinking about- it didn’t bloody matter!

“Of course it bloody matters! You can’t shut up about him!” Jane cried, and Paul let out an exasperated groan as his head came down on the table with a painful thud. Jane smirked and took a sip from her bottle of water as she reached over to give him a couple of encouraging pats on the shoulder. They were in the library again, and had managed to procure themselves a study room to work in, seeing as they were going to be here for a while - George and Ringo were having another video game tournament as a rematch for the last one and Paul did not want to be there while that was going on, fearing he might witness a murder if he was. The privacy of the room allowed them to speak at a normal volume, and although Paul had been glad he had been able to talk about this with someone other than George, he now kinda wished he hadn’t said anything.

“Paulie… is that what you were doing when we came in? You were checking to see if he was around somewhere? Because Christ, Paul, you really are hopeless,” Jane said, and although her voice sounded emphatic, there was an amused glint in her eyes that gave her away. Paul shot her a look.

“I’m not hopeless, it’s called taking precautions,” he said matter-of-factly, but the grin on his friend’s face didn’t go away. 

“Why? Because you may not be able to control yourself around him if you see him? Afraid you might kiss him again if he looks at you a certain way? Granted the guy is good-looking, but I had thought your taste in men would be slightly more refined.” Paul rolled his eyes in response and cursed himself for ever having brought the subject up. He should have known better than to share these thing with Jane; she was far too concerned with his love-life.

“I do  _ not _ have a crush on John and my self-control is as impeccable as always, thank you, Jane. I just don’t want to deal with the embarrassment again. Throwing up on handsome guys wasn’t really part of the plan when I decided to come to London to study art history, you know. Handsome guys in general weren’t part of the plan. And they still aren’t.”

“Paul, dear… You  _ kissed _ him.  _ You _ kissed  _ him _ . Which, combined with the fact that we are still talking about him a week after, makes it safe to say you do have a crush on him, don’t you think?”

“Oh, piss off…” Paul shot back and pouted down at his library book at his failure to come up with a better retort. “How do you know John anyway? He doesn’t seem like the type you’d usually hang out with.”

“Yeah, because we don’t. But Astrid and I are on the swim team together, which means Stuart is at the pool a lot during practise to support his girlfriend, which in turn means John is there because he gets bored and needs Stuart to entertain him.”

“And you don’t like him because…?” 

Jane raised an eyebrow at his question and scoffed. “You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

“I meant why specifically,” Paul clarified with a smirk, glad to have moved the focus away from himself and to Jane, who took another sip of water before she started to explain.

“He was a prick to me the first time we met, as he is to everybody,” she said, shrugging. “He asked me how girls masturbated and then went on to make up some inappropriate poem about me being a beautiful water nymph who lures guys in and murders them.”

“You’ve got to admit that sounds pretty badass. And at least he said you were beautiful,” Paul said, chuckling, but Jane shook her head in return. 

“Not if you heard what kind of language he used. It was humiliating, Paul. Not to mention he went on to suggest I was a lesbian too, and he gave some very colourful descriptions about that. At least Stuart thought it was funny.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I think you’d make a great man-murdering, lesbian water nymph,” Paul said with a wink and Jane laughed as she took another sip of water.

“Maybe I already am one,” she said mysteriously, “that’s why I have my water bottle with me. Need to stay hydrated while I’m on land.”

“I hope not. Because if you were, you’d be doing a piss-poor job at killing men, seeing I’m still very much alive and it’s been weeks since you met me.”

“Don’t worry, dear, I wouldn’t kill you. You’re part of my great plan. Every lesbian water nymph needs her hot bisexual male eye-candy besides her to assist her.” 

“That’s all I am then, eh?” Paul said with a dramatic sigh, pressing the back of his left hand to his forehead as he pretended to swoon, “Nothing more than a fine piece of ass to be gawked at. Barely more than pretty face. A sexually-ambiguous sex object.”

“As if you’d mind.”

“I can’t say, can I? My body is all that matters now! When you’re hot, no one cares about what comes out of your mouth anymore. It’s a curse! All they care about is what goes into it,” Paul said and winked at Jane, who recoiled in disgust. Nonetheless she was laughing, and for a moment Paul had completely forgotten about John. That is, until Jane had caught her breath again and turned to him with an even wider smirk. 

“I’m not sure John would mind either, you know,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes, but Paul waved away her remark. 

“There is nothing going on between me and John and there never will be. Besides, I doubt he’s still into me after what happened, which I guess is the only good thing to come out of this.”

“Did you tell Dot what happened?” 

Paul shook his head.

“No… And I wasn’t really planning on it either,” he said truthfully. “There’s not even much to say, is there? It was just a stupid drunken mistake. It didn’t mean anything. Telling her will only unnecessarily hurt her.”

“Paul, you did kiss another person…”

“So?”

“So, you ought to tell her!” Jane’s voice was forceful, as if she could not believe what Paul was saying. “It doesn’t matter if it didn’t mean anything or not! She will appreciate your honesty. Besides, you’ve been dating for over three years! You’re in a serious, long-term relationship, Paul. You can’t just keep these things from her. Not anymore.”

Paul was quiet for a while, letting her words sink in. He knew Dot wasn’t going to react positively if he were to tell her about what happened between him and John, and she had every right to. And if she wasn’t, then she would at the very least feel betrayed. They had been dating for over three years! And if that didn’t count for anything, the occurrences of the last two years certainly did. Things like kissing men while high or drunk just wasn’t supposed to happen anymore, especially seeing as Paul had known John had had an interest in him. He had broken her trust, intoxicated or not. But if he told her, he would hurt her, and she didn’t deserve that. 

“What if she finds out from someone else, eh? You’ve already told me and George, and if George knows, then you can bet Ringo and Pattie know as well.”

“George swore on his Bob Dylan records he wouldn’t tell anyone. You know how much that man worships Dylan! He isn’t going to let me get anywhere near his records.”

“Yeah, but for George, Ringo doesn’t count. And he and Pattie are dating now, so he will have told her too, especially since she was there the night it happened and Dot kept interrupting them with her phone calls to ask about you. She would want to know what was going on and I’m certain George wouldn’t think twice about telling her. Not to mention that there is one other person who knows about what has happened between you and John, and who will definitely be talking about it with other people.” 

Paul glanced up at her questioningly and waited for her to continue, having not a clue who else he could have told, which drew an annoyed groan from Jane. 

“I’m talking about  _ John _ , Paul! You can bet all of his friends have heard the story at least twice now! What if somehow Dot hears it from one of his friends, or friends of his friends? You know John’s from Liverpool too, right? Dot will be pissed if she hears about it from anyone but you.”

“Wait… John’s from Liverpool?”

“Paul!”

“Okay! Fine... I’ll call her this evening,” Paul said, holding up his hands in defeat before he reached for his phone and typed out a quick message to Dot, making sure to hit “send” before showing it to Jane.  She smiled and nodded as her eyes skimmed the text, which essentially asked Dot if she had the evening off so they could talk and that he missed her. Already Paul felt he had made a mistake, but he knew Jane was right. He couldn’t risk it.

“Thanks, Paul,” she said, and he nodded in response, his throat too tight to talk at the prospect of actually having to speak to Dot. At least he had a little while to prepare, though he couldn’t help but hope she had something planned this evening and wouldn’t be able to make it. 

Without another word, he went back to work, taking notes as he did his reading for later that week, while occasionally sharing a few words with Jane about unimportant things, as she revised the notes she had taken that day. At least one positive thing about getting kicked out of your own flat - albeit willingly - was the amount of work he could get done for university, being stuck in the library for a large part of his day. In the end it saved him a lot of time. 

Or at least… it would have done if he had been able to keep his mind focused. 

Instead, he found himself thinking about John again, although he blamed Jane for it this time, seeing as she had been the one to bring up John was from Liverpool as well. Had they ever met before? Or even just seen each other? Had they gone to the same school? John was older than him, so it could be a possibility… Maybe they had sat on the bus together once, neither of them knowing one day one of them would get sick all over the other and would need to be carried home. His life was a mess. 

Once their allotted time for the study room was over, Paul and Jane began to gather their stuff and Paul decided he would skim the library a while longer for a particular book he needed for his upcoming essay, seeing as he doubted George and Ringo would have finished their gaming tournament yet, it being barely four o’clock. Jane, however, had other plans for the day, so they walked back downstairs together, talking to each other in hushed whispers as not to be of any nuisance. They had only just reached the second floor and turned a corner when they suddenly heard a familiar voice calling out for them, far louder than either of them were comfortable with in a library. 

“Would you look who it is! Our very own good little student Paul, back here again!” the voice called and Paul tensed up as he swiftly looked around himself, judging whether he could still make a run for it for not. The stairs weren’t that far away - seeing as they had just come from there - and with all the running he had been doing in the mornings, he could easily make it, assuming John was as lazy and hateful of any kind of exercise as Paul had him pinned for. Jane, however, had a strong hold on his arm, keeping him from going anywhere and urging him to turn around. “And Miss Asher… it’s always a pleasure to see you again as well.”

Turning around, Paul swallowed thickly as his eyes landed on John, feeling how his chest tightened under the other man’s gaze as he looked him up and down, taking in every part of him. When John’s eyes landed on Jane’s hand which was still holding his arm, he quickly tugged himself free. He didn’t miss the way the corners of John’s mouth twitched at the sight. 

“Is it not curious I only ever see you in the library? I’d almost begin to think you lived here,” the older man said, and although Paul now knew there was no cruel intent in his words, he still felt his cheeks heat up. 

“Well, some of us need to study. And besides, you know where I live.” He said that last quietly, almost shyly, and mentally kicked himself for letting John get to him so easily. After all, they had had fun last week before he had started to feel sick. He had been able to keep up with him. He could do so again.

“Aye, that I do,” John replied with a wink and moved a little closer to them, taking a step into Paul’s personal space, eyes twinkling as Paul refused to step away. “What are you studying for then, eh?”

“Just working on an essay for art history.”

“Boring,” John replied with a smirk, and Paul rolled his eyes at him. He felt the urge to take a step back, but doing so would feel like John had the upper hand on him, which  _ wasn’t  _ the case, so he remained where he was, unmoving. At least he was half an inch taller than John, which he felt counted for something. 

“Actually,” he said, eyes looking directly into John’s, “I find it rather interesting, so I’d better get back to work. Jane has other plans as well, so...” 

“Oh well, in that case I won’t keep you, Jane,” John said, shooting Jane a sideways glance which couldn’t be mistaken as meaning anything other than “leave” - although a ruder variant would be more apt - before he turned his focus back onto Paul. Jane was more than happy to comply to that order, clearly uncomfortable baring witness to whatever it was that was going on. Paul hardly knew himself, so he couldn’t  blame her. Still, he hated her for what she did next. 

“Yeah… see you around, guys. I’ll er… I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Paul,” she said and before Paul could protest, she had turned on her heels and walked off with quick, long steps. Paul cursed her in his head for leaving him like that, before turning back to John, who, as he now saw, had stepped even closer to him, but had also pulled a very familiar-looking leather-bound notebook from his bag. 

“As for you, doctor McCartney…” he said, his voice low and sultry, clearly trying to make Paul feel uncomfortable, “I just wanted to hand this back to you. You must’ve been missing it.” Paul stared at the notebook as he held out it out for him, and recognised it easily as his own. He had been searching for it, thinking he had misplaced it, but now he saw it in John's hand, he felt stupid for not having suspected him sooner. He tried grabbing it, but John was swift to pull it out of his reach, causing Paul to stumble forward slightly as he lost his balance, bringing the two men even closer, so that they were barely a two feet apart and Paul could feel John’s breath on his face. 

“Ah-ah! Not so quick, darling,” John said, smirking as Paul made another unsuccessful reach for it.

“Don’t call me ‘darling’. And how did you get my notebook, anyway?”

“I didn’t  _ steal _ it, if that’s what you’re implying. You just left it at the cafe last week. Thought it’d be proper of me to hand it back to you is all.”

“Good. You can give it back now then,” Paul said, making another grab at the notebook, but John swiftly moved it behind his back and out of Paul’s reach. 

“Patience, doll eyes,” he playfully scolded and Paul huffed in annoyance but kept silent, knowing John would just continue being a pain if he didn’t do what he said. Still, that didn’t stop him from hissing “asshole” under his breath, which, judging by the smirk on John’s lips, the other man had heard.  _ Good _ , Paul thought. 

“You know, there is no reason to be embarrassed. People do all sorts stupid things when they’re high and drunk. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

“For some reason I’m not surprised…” Paul muttered in reply, causing John to let out a little laugh. “And I’m not embarrassed. I just want my notebook back and get back to work.” 

“Are you free now?” John asked, and Paul stared at him wide eyed.

“I-I just… I just told you-” Paul stammered but John easily silenced him.

“Look here, gorgeous,” he said, cocking his head at him in a manner Paul knew to be seductive, as he raised his free hand to motion him to be quiet, “I know there’s no way that essay is due any time soon, and truthfully I’m rather hungry and in a dire need for a good cup of coffee, so all I’m asking is whether you want to come with me or not.”

“Why would you possibly think I’d say ‘yes’? I don’t even like you!” 

“Last time you told me that you ended up kissing me, so I’m taking my chances here. What do you say?” Paul felt his cheeks heat up again as the memory of John’s lips pressing against his own filled his mind, and by the way John was grinning at him, he assumed his blushing was very apparent. Still, Paul pulled himself together and narrowed his eyes at the other man as he folded his arms before his chest. 

“I’m guessing you’re not going to give me my notebook back unless I say yes, are you?” he said. Much to his genuine surprise, however, John merely laughed  and offered him his notebook back right away. 

“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to blackmail you into having coffee with me. I just knew if I had given you this right away, you’d have ran away before I had the chance to ask.”

“I- I wouldn’t have ran away…” Paul said, flustered as he took his notebook from the other man and slipped it into his bag, pretending not to see the knowing look John gave him in response. 

“So… what to do you say?” the man asked again and Paul looked him up and down for a moment, before he gave in with a sigh. 

“Fine… but only because I could really go for some coffee right now. And this not a date, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

“Whatever you say, darling,” John said, and with that, he took Paul by his arm and started dragging him with him towards the exit. 

*** 

The cafe John took him to was remarkably nice. Paul had suspected they would go somewhere simple, like a Costa or a Caffè Nero or even the university cafe, and had raised an eyebrow in surprise as they passed a number of them on their way. Instead, they had walked for about ten minutes before John had finally directed him into a small, but cosy cafe, to which Paul had been once before a few years ago. He had been visiting London for a holiday with his father and brother, and they had stumbled upon it by accident. Paul was more than happy to find himself back here again.

He welcomed the smell of freshly ground coffee as John opened the door for him and let him in first. Adele’s Crazy For You was playing, and like the time before, it was quiet, there being only a few people of around, most likely other students, sitting at small round wooden tables with their laptops or phones, either alone or with another person with whom they would occasionally converse. The place was bright, with large windows at the front, white tiled walls, and light wooden flooring with geometric patterned rugs for a more cosy atmosphere. The bar was large and square and took a prominent spot in the room, but if anything it made it more personal. He and John took a seat at a table by the window and they offered each other a small smile as they sat opposite each other. Paul took off his coat and hung it over the back of his chair, while John simply put his with his bag on the floor between the window and table. 

“Any idea what you’d like, yet?” John asked as he had a quick glance over the menu that was placed on every table, twirling it around a few times in his hands, before handing it to Paul. It was obvious he already knew what it said, and Paul wondered if he came here often. 

“Hmm… I might just get a simple black coffee. Although… if I remember well they have the best chocolate cake here. But I probably shouldn’t,” Paul said, frowning, as he took the menu from John and had a quick look at it his well, his eyes lingering on the cakes and pies section.

“What do you mean, you probably shouldn’t?” John asked, pulling the menu down so he could look Paul in the eye. 

“Well,” Paul said, nervously shrugging his shoulders, “it’s not exactly good for you, is it?”

“So? It’s just one slice. You’re skinny enough, if that’s what you’re worried about,” John said, his tone firmer than what might have been expected in a situation like this. “And even if you weren’t, fuck the others, right?” 

Paul smiled at the flattering words, but remained unsure, remembering how hard it had been to lose weight when he had been younger. He hadn’t liked the nicknames people had used for him, calling him chubby or baby or fatty, be it in jest or with the actual intention to hurt. He hadn’t liked the teasing, or the general unhappiness he had felt about his body, making him oddly aware of it all the time - he hadn’t liked any of it, and when he had decided to lose weight, he had struggled with it for a long time. It hadn’t been easy, and when his mum died… Well, it hadn’t helped. 

The last thing he wanted was to return to that, to be fat again. But unfortunately he had always had a sweet tooth, and once he started eating, it was difficult for him to stop. It was easier to just never indulge himself. He allowed himself one bar of chocolate a week, which he mostly had on the weekends, because he simply could not survive without it, and Jane already got him plenty of cookies when they would meet up after class, and if it hadn’t been for his strict running schedule he would never have allowed for any of that. If he started having cake now with John as well… He wouldn’t stop at simply having that single slice of chocolate cake. He would be coming back again, telling himself it would be fine, and then it’d get worse and worse until he’d sit by George’s cupboard full of sweets and treats and other good stuff in the middle of the night, stuffing himself in secrecy. 

He knew it probably wasn’t healthy to be this concerned with his eating habits, especially since one slice of chocolate cake wasn’t going to ruin his life, and he knew that, but Paul really wanted to stay in the shape he was in. It wasn’t that he wanted to lose weight or anything, or that he thought he was fat now - in fact he had never felt better about himself in that regard - but… he didn’t want to hear people call him “fatty” again, or look into the mirror and call himself that. 

He shook his head. 

“No, I shouldn’t… I’ll just have a cup of coffee and that’s it,” he said, but John wouldn’t have any of it and promptly took the menu away from him. 

“Don’t be silly! You want chocolate cake, you’ll get that chocolate cake!” he said, looking at the menu himself to make sure the chocolate cake was still on there, and grabbed his wallet from his bag. Before Paul could object, he had got up and had hurried to the bar to order, not giving him a chance. 

“John! No, I don’t-” Paul tried, but it was in vain. John had already gone. Groaning, he let his head fall onto the table, regretting his decision to accept the other man’s offer for coffee, knowing he should have expected things to not go according to plan when he was with him. Things never seemed to when John was around. What had gotten into him, saying yes? 

He opened one of his eyes to glance at the counter to see John talking to a young female barista and watched in horror as the girl got him a slice of that deliciously sinful chocolate cake, home-made from organic and fair-trade ingredients, which made it only better in Paul’s opinion. His mouth watered at the mere sight of it, memories of the taste coming back to him, the way the chocolate had melted on his tongue and the taste had lingered in his mouth for hours after. Shaking his head in a poor attempt to rid himself of these thoughts, he hurriedly looked away and got out his phone, hoping it would take his mind of that chocolate cake, or rather that it would somehow magically disappear. 

Unlocking his phone, he noticed Dot had send him a message back, telling him she was going out with a couple of friends that evening but could talk beforehand that if that was okay. Paul, knowing he did not have a good excuse to back out now, texted her back, saying it was fine before asking her what time would suit her best. Within ten seconds he got a reply back suggesting seven o’clock, to which Paul half-heartedly agreed, his heart thumping in his throat. As he looked back up and out of the window, silently freaking out about his coming talk with his girlfriend, he noticed the music had changed to Sam Cooke’s Bring It On Home To Me - the music the coffee shop played was even better than how Paul remembered it being, and he softly hummed along, feeling how the music calmed him, if only a little.

“Here you go, Princess,” Paul suddenly heard John say, and he turned his head to see John put down a large plate of chocolate cake in front of him along with both their coffees. He frowned when he saw John was holding two forks, but had no other piece of cake or pie or any other food with him. “I thought,” the man continued as he took his seat again, noticing Paul’s look of confusion, “we could share it, instead. That way you can feel a little better about not upholding your usual diet.”

Paul smiled at that, and chuckled as he gave in, just the sight of it and John’s strange way of compromising rendering him unable to refuse. It did look  _ delicious _ , and when John smiled in that charming way of his as he handed Paul one of the forks, he knew he was going to regret it. His self-control only went so far.

“Fine,” he said, “but this isn’t a date thing.” 

John grinned at him and rolled his eyes as Paul dug in and took his first bite of the chocolate cake, which just seemed to melt on his tongue. He didn’t even need to close his mouth and he moaned in pleasure as the bitter, yet sweet taste of chocolate invaded all corners of his mouth and began to drizzle down his throat - it really was the best cake he had ever had in his life. Opening his eyes - he hadn’t realised he had closed them - he saw John watching him, a smile on his lips that could not be interpreted as anything other than love-sick, and Paul smiled apologetically at him as he looked away, embarrassed. He frowned as his gaze landed on John’s drink. 

“Huh,” he said, gesturing at it, “I didn’t pin you for a latte kind of guy.” 

“There are multiple layers to all of us, Paul. Besides I like the little art they do with the milk,” John explained as he turned his cup around so Paul could see the little cat face the barista had managed to create, and for a moment Paul was taken aback by his answer, which was so unlike the rest of his rough exterior. It was really… kind of cute? He was only taken away from his thoughts as he phone began to buzz again. 

“That your girlfriend?” John asked, and Paul nodded as he checked it swiftly. 

“Something like that,” he said and texted Dot back with a kissing emoji, before turning it over so it was lying face-down on the table, hoping it wouldn’t disturb them again for at least a little while. 

“ _ Something like that _ ?” John asked with a curious chuckle.

“It’s not important,” Paul said, sighing, and picked up his cup of coffee to take a careful sip, blowing into it first to cool it a little, not wanting to burn his tongue. John, however only sat up in interest at those words and leant forward on his elbows, as if afraid he were to miss anything if he didn’t. 

“You sure? Come on, Paulie. Satisfy a guy’s burning curiosity,” he said with a wink, and Paul glanced at him doubtfully, but gave in anyway and put his (still too hot) coffee back down. He stared into it as he answered, preferring not to look at the other man. 

“She erm… We were engaged, actually. Or for a while we were, anyway. But then… well, we had our issues and now we are here and I’m not sure either of us knows where that ‘here’ is right now. ‘Girlfriend’ just seems the most fitting label right now, though I don’t know what Dot calls me, her fiance or boyfriend. We never really talked about it.” 

“Wow, engaged, eh?” John said and whistled lowly, “what did you do, Paul? You didn’t knock her up, did you? You know they have invented stuff for that now, right?” Paul started at that, but didn’t say anything and merely had another bite of his chocolate cake, preferring that to talking about him and Dot. Especially with John. While they were sitting in a cafe. He knew John didn’t mean bad, but it was exhausting thinking about her, about what had happened, to both of them at that. Thankfully, John didn’t press it and followed Paul’s example as he too took a bite out of the chocolate cake. 

“So,” he continued after a moment of silence, catching Paul’s eyes again, “you studied medicine. What was that like?” 

_ Hell _ , was the first word that came to mind, but he swallowed it down in favour of a shrug. 

“As if you really care,” he said, taking a sip from his coffee, which was now finally the right temperature. He hummed contently as the warm liquid rushed from his mouth to his throat to his stomach, mixing with the chocolate and warming him throughout from the inside out. God, he had needed that. 

John was looking at him again, enjoying the noises he was making, but unlike last time, Paul didn’t look away from him as their eyes met and bit his tongue to tell himself to not be this loud, which appeared harder than one might expect. John licked some cake crumbles from his lips before he spoke.

“Contrary to what some might think,” he said, smiling, “I like learning more about the people I kiss, and even if I didn’t, I still enjoy hearing them talk. You especially.” John shot him a flirtatious wink, and Paul lightly choked on his coffee at his forwardness, making him almost feel betrayed by one of the few good things he had in his life as it burned in his throat. He suppressed the tug at his lips at John’s remark and looked down at his mug as he placed in the saucer in front of him, wiping his mouth.

“Is that because you just like my voice or because you think I’m actually saying something interesting?” he asked and John smirked at him.

“Both,” he said without so much as a thought, and Paul chuckled despite himself, his chest feeling strange at John’s words, strange in a way he knew he shouldn’t feel, but he allowed himself to be indulged for a moment and enjoyed the flattery. 

“In case you had forgotten, this is not a date, so you can stop flirting with me. It’s not gonna get you anywhere this time. And… well, there’s not much to say. It had good and bad moments. And if I had liked it, I wouldn’t be here right now, so… Make your own deductions,” he said, swallowing thickly and felt relieved when John didn’t go into it. 

“Oh, but I think you rather like my flirting, even if you won’t admit it,” he said instead, and when Paul didn’t respond, he added, “you studied in Liverpool, you said?”

Paul nodded. “I’ve lived there all my life, and once I finished secondary school, it just made sense for me to stay, though I got me a student flat to live in. Jane told me you’re from there as well.”

“You two been talking about me?” John asked, smug grin on his lips, and Paul rolled his eyes at that. Putting on a thick scouse accent that would have been more fitting in the 60s than now, John said, “I’m a Liverpudlian through and through, darling. Think you can handle a tough old scouser like me?”

“I think I’ll do fine, thanks, John,” Paul replied in similar fashion, though his accent wasn’t as over-done, sounding instead more modern and genuine as opposed to John’s dramatic take on it. 

“You don’t sound that scouse normally,” John remarked, and Paul laughed as he shrugged. 

“Mum taught us to speak proper, you know. She hoped it would open up more chances for me and Mike. She always got upset about me g’s and would go on about me vowels being lazy. Dad never really cared, though. How ‘bout you?” Paul asked, keeping his pronunciation scouse, which seemed to amuse John. 

“Learned it from the sailors down the docks. I grew up with me aunt,  in the proper middle class way, so I would use it to piss her off when I was angry. I can do it pretty well, but it’s not natural like yours, I guess.” Paul nodded at that, wondering why John had grown up with his aunt, rather than his parents, but he didn’t dare ask, knowing how annoying it could be when you constantly needed to explain why your mother wasn’t at your first solo performance in the church choir, or why she wasn’t there for your graduation or why you were sad and depressed on mother’s day and didn’t stress about getting your mother a present like all the other kids. It was horrible to constantly be reminded of it, to constantly have to explain and to have to deal with the condolences and words and looks of pity afterwards. Paul was certain it hadn’t helped with his mental health to have to deal with that constantly all the time, and although he knew Dr Collins said it wasn’t good for him to keep those things hidden and to bottle all that pain up, he mostly found himself jumping around the subject, preferring not to talk about it, and he didn’t doubt John felt the same way. That is, assuming he had gone through something similar, which of course didn’t need to be the case, but just to be certain, he didn’t ask about it. 

“I think you can do the accent better than I can,” he said instead. 

“Well, yeah, but I’m not proper scouse now, am I? Not like you lot.”

“Think you can handle a tough old scouser like me, then, eh?” Paul repeated, joking, and he knew he had made a mistake when John’s eyes glazed over dark and the corners of his mouth curled up into a smirk.

“If you’re offering,” he said, and Paul casually flipped him the finger as he drank from his coffee again, though he could not deny the strange churn in his stomach. 

They spoke for a while, their conversation getting easier and easier, and it was almost as if their minds had synced up by the end of it. They barely even finished their sentences anymore and would often come up with the same joke, which they would tell at the same time, after which they giggled into their cups like school boys talking about naughty stuff they had seen on the internet or on those magazines you could buy at gas stations. The atmosphere was relaxed and although John remained overtly flirtatious, it wasn’t anything Paul couldn’t handle, and by the end he had even grown to like it, that is, as long as John knew this wasn’t a date, of which Paul reminded him plenty. 

The chocolate cake was easily shared between them, and when Paul had finished his coffee, John readily got him another one, for which Paul was grateful. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, talking about Liverpool, university, friends, family, poetry and music, but the more Paul spoke with John the more likeable he became. 

John, Paul learned, had gone to art school right next to where Paul had attended grammar school, and had lived only a short walk away from him, meaning they would have needed to take the same bus for the last leg of the way and that they had possibly seen each other before but just never got to meet. It was strange they would meet here now, so far away from Liverpool where they had lived their lives so near to each other. 

“Do you think you’ve seen me before?” Paul asked, unsure which answer he would prefer, and John thought for a while before shaking his head. 

“I would have remembered you, I think. You’re far too pretty to forget about,” he said and Paul slapped him on the arm in response as he told him off. John, however, reacted fast as caught Paul’s hand in his own for a brief moment, causing Paul to freeze as he stared at him, his fingers trembling where they touched John’s skin, which was surprisingly soft except for the callouses on his fingertips. When John pulled his hand away again, he sighed, though not necessarily from relief. 

“Sorry,” John said, his voice soft and Paul blinked up at him in surprise, not having expected those words to drop from the man’s lips. Before he could say something in return, however, a bell sounded behind Paul, signalling the arrival of another customer, and immediately John pulled even further away from him. He called out to the man and Paul realised he could hear sound again that wasn’t John’s nasal yet attractive voice. It all came back to him suddenly and all at once: the music - it had changed to You’ve Really Got a Hold On Me by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles - the chatter of other people, and the sound of the coffee machine as more coffee beans were ground. 

“Stu! What are you doing here, mate?” John called out as he looked up at the newly arrived customer. Turning his head, Paul saw the familiar small-bodied man standing by the door, sunglasses on his nose and a smile on his face as he looked from John to Paul and back again. 

“Just grabbing a cup of coffee before heading out to my last lecture. How about you? On a date, I see?” he asked, smirking, and Paul flushed red. 

“We are  _ not  _ on a date.” 

“Right…”

“We’re not!”

“Which is why you are having coffee with the guy you made out with a week ago,” Stuart said with a grin and Paul groaned, resting his head in his hand as he suddenly remembered exactly why this had been a bad idea in the first place. Of course, John had told his friends all about it too. He hated it when Jane was right.

“Come on, Stu. Let the poor boy be,” John said, giggling and Paul mouthed a thank you back at him, causing John to smile at him warmly, as he reached out and gently touched Paul’s hand with his fingertips in a soothing manner, and Paul actually felt himself relax.

“Yeah… You two are totally on a date,” Stuart remarked at that and before either of the two men could object, he said, “Anyway, I shouldn’t stick around. Mr Cornell will have my head if I am late. God knows why. It’s not like he says anything interesting during his lectures.”

“It’s not on a date!” Paul muttered again, but now both men ignored him.

“Shit, Stu… You may want to hurry up then. It’s already past 5.30 and Mr Cornell is the absolute worst. I do not envy you at all. I don’t know what possessed you to take that course.”

“Tell me about it,” Stuart said and shot one more glance at Paul, who had shrunken into his chair like a little ball of embarrassment, silently hoping the other man would leave soon. “Anyway, enjoy the rest of your date. I have to go. John, I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” 

“Yeah! See ya tomorrow, Stu,” John said and Paul muttered a soft, grumbling goodbye himself as Stuart began to make his way to the counter to get his coffee. Once he was out of earshot, John turned back to Paul, who was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, pouting, and John chuckled at the sight of him. .

“We are  _ not  _ dating!” he hissed and John rolled his eyes. 

“You know he is just teasing you, right?” 

“I know…” 

John studied him for a moment before he picked up Paul’s coffee cup to see he hadn’t finished it yet, and handed it to him as he told him to finish it. 

“Let’s go for a walk together. I can bring you home.”

“If you want me gone, you can just say so. You don’t have to chaperone me. I’ll be fine this time, seeing as I neither drank nor smoked any pot,” Paul said as he did what John had asked and took a sip from his coffee. John smiled at his joke, but shook his head nonetheless.

“Don’t be silly. It’s a nice day out. And besides, I need to get home too. Now finish that coffee.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it,” Paul said, laughing and hastily complied, swallowing the rest down in one go as he reached into his bag for his wallet. 

“How much do I owe you?” he asked once he had finished his coffee and put his cup back down. John, however, refused to let him pay. “You know, you don’t have to keep paying for me all the time. I can pay for myself no problem.”

“I know. See it as a gentlemanly gesture. Besides, I forced you to share that chocolate cake with me. It would be unfair to have you pay for it. And you can also see it as my way of making it up to you for that,” John said and Paul could not help but feel flattered, so he accepted. 

“Fine, but I pay next time,” he said, causing John to grin at him.

“So, there’s going to be a next time?” he asked, as smug as ever, and Paul shot him another stern look as he got up and pulled on his coat again, not saying another word about it.

*** 

Back at home, the gaming tournament appeared to be over and the living room was in surprisingly good condition. A handwritten note lay on the coffee table, scribbled in the same style as the one he had found on his bedroom door a week ago,  explaining that George and Ringo had gone out to get some fish and chips for dinner to celebrate George’s victory (which probably meant Ringo had won) and that they’d be at the usual place in their usual spot if he may wish to join them, which was a mere five minutes away. Paul, however, was glad to have the flat to himself for once. It was already a quarter past six, which meant he was going to have to call Dot soon, something which he really was not looking forward to. He hoped George and Ringo would be out till then at least, preferring not to have anyone around to hear the inevitable fight.  

The walk back home with John had been quiet, neither of them having spoken much as John had urged them to take a small detour so they could walk quietly through the park where Paul would run every morning. It had been quiet there as well, and they had spoken in hushed voices about their favourite artists and songs as they walked, finding they had a very similar taste in music, while they took in the chilly autumn air as they still enjoyed the warmth the sun provided. Once they had gotten home, Paul had mumbled a quick goodbye and  had thanked John once more for the coffee and his notebook before he had hurried into the flat. 

It hadn’t been anything special, but still Paul found himself smiling as he remembered the way John had offered him his earphones to let him listen to a song he had recently discovered and was crazy about. Paul couldn’t remember the song now, though he knew he had liked it. He guessed it had been a Buddy Holly song, but he couldn’t be sure. Still, it had been nice to be able to talk to someone who had the same taste in music as him. 

Throwing his things into his bedroom, Paul headed to the kitchen to heat up some canned soup for dinner and make some toast as he poured himself a large glass of water, feeling thirsty after all that coffee, and drank it all in one go while he waited for the soup to warm up. Once it was ready, he poured it into a bowl and got himself another glass of water, before he carried everything with him into his bedroom, sitting down at his desk by his laptop to eat. He put on a record - Pet Sounds by The Beach Boys, his favourite - and softly starting singing along to the music as he ate his dinner and checked his university email, scrolled through Instagram for a bit and checked his favourite twitter profiles. There didn’t seem to be much going on today that interested Paul, so, out of sheer boredom, he decided to google John instead for no reason at all. 

He found his Facebook account immediately, but it was mostly empty, the last thing that had been posted being birthday greetings from… almost a year ago! October 9th. Glancing at the Elvis Presley wall calendar that hung on the wall above his desk, Paul noticed it was only two weeks away. John’s profile picture was nice though. It looked like it was an old one, perhaps taken about a year ago, maybe longer, and it was John, dressed up in 50s rocker style clothes, sunglasses on his nose, his hair slick and styled into a quiff, as he stood leaning against an old vintage car. He looked good and Paul felt to urge to press like, but decided not to, thinking that would be weird. 

There was however a post a little further down of John’s telling people to check out his twitter, so that was what Paul did next, hoping to find more there. His jaw dropped and his spoon nearly fell from his fingers onto the floor as he saw the incredible amount of tweets on John’s twitter account, and to his horror saw a mention of himself a few tweets down where John warned people about kissing guys who had just thrown up on you, ‘cause they tasted disgusting, no matter how sweet they looked. Thankfully, he hadn’t mentioned any names, and Paul felt relieved, if not slightly surprised, not having thought John would care about that. The man however, appeared less and less horrible with every new thing he learned about him. 

The rest of his twitter account was filled with rants about various topics, such as politics, social issues, news articles, celebrity gossip, books, music, television series and movies, most of which were long and at least eight tweets long - making Paul doubt just how much John meant the tweet about tweets were meant to be short for a reason and how annoying it was when people would use multiple to express one idea and write an entire essay, though he supposed it could have been meant ironically too. There were also tweets about more mundane things about his daily life, such as losing your keys, or people taking too long to make a choice when ordering food, or about the intense irritation of dropping your guitar pick between the strings and having it fall into your guitar, about which John had managed to rant for 28 tweets… At least it explained the callouses he had felt on John’s finger tips. 

There were also a few pictures posted, some of which linked to what John claimed to be an horrendously inactive Instagram account, and Paul smiled as he saw a picture of a gorgeous, expensive Rickenbacker guitar with the caption “my true love” under it, remembering his own similar tweets.

He looked through John’s twitter for a while, reading various rants of his and being surprised at how well-thought out some of them were, whereas others seemed to have been typed drunk. Or high. Considering what Paul knew of the other man, he figured they probably were. 

As the number of his digital clock came closer to 19.00, however, he found it becoming harder and harder to focus on the man’s tweets, and when it was four minutes to seven, he decided to just go for it and get it over with. It was best to keep it short, anyway, seeing as Jane would probably be waiting by the phone to hear about how it went.

Taking a deep breath, he dialled his girlfriend’s number and sat fumbling with the hem of his shirt as he waited for the tender sound of her voice. He only needed to wait a few seconds before someone answered, but instead of the sweet voice he was used to hearing, he was met with huffing and puffing and light curses as Paul could hear what sounded like stumbling and various things clattering onto the floor on the other end of the line. 

“Dot?” he asked, and for a second all he got was a huff in return, after which more stumbling followed and finally she let out a curse loud enough for him to hear properly. 

“Shit, sorry… Ow! Yeah… yeah, I’m here.”

“What is going on there?” Paul asked, laughing, and Dot huffed again, before she finally sat down on what was presumably her bed with a sigh and the noises stopped. 

“Just… just getting dressed. I er… I tripped over the leg of my tights. I’m a little late, so it’s a bit chaotic here right now.” 

“You want me to call back later? Cause that wouldn’t be an issue-”

“No! No, that’s fine. I still got plenty of time. The girls won’t get here for another forty minutes or so. It’s just… a mess, basically,” Dot said, chuckling and she led out a sigh as Paul heard her fall back on her bed. He pulled his legs up and hugged them close to his chest, picturing what she would look like now and smiling at the pretty sight she would make, a lock of short blond hair falling before her eyes like it always used to do, and which Paul always used to push away and behind her ear. 

“What are you doing then? This evening?” he asked, reaching down between his legs to play with his toes. 

“Oh, it’s Sandra’s birthday today, so we all decided to have a girl’s night out to celebrate. We’re going out for drinks first and then we’re going dancing. No boys allowed.” 

“Can’t say I’m not relieved to hear that. Anything special you’re going to wear?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Dot remarked with a giggle and Paul smiled. 

“You know I like my girl to look pretty,” he said and Dot hummed. 

“Any special requests? I was planning on just wearing an army green skirt with an off the shoulder top… perhaps with that special set of underwear you gave me. If you’d like.”

Paul swallowed thickly as he remembered that particular present and could only hum in response as a tiny smirk pulled at his lips. She had looked wonderful in that, and the first time he had seen her in it, he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her for the entirety of the evening and long into the night. They had only fallen asleep from exhaustion at about four in the morning and hadn’t left the bed until late afternoon. Paul missed those days and for the first time in a while he wished she was here with him, or he was over there, back in Liverpool, and that they could have nights like that again. More guilt for his actions of the previous week gnawed at him, and he felt his throat dry out as he remembered why he had called her in the first place. 

“You know how much I would like that,” he said, trying his best to sound casual. “I wish I could see you in it.” 

For a moment it remained quiet on the other end of the line, and for a second Paul thought he had said something wrong or that she had noticed something was off, but then his phone began to buzz and he groaned as he realised what she had done. 

“Don’t look at it now,” Dot said, a giggle in her voice, and Paul swallowed thickly, wishing she hadn’t done that, knowing how upset she was going to be when he would tell her he had kissed another guy, especially after having foolishly accused her of having done the same thing the next day. God, he was a crap boyfriend. Fiance. Whatever.

“So what did you want to talk to me about?” Dot asked and Paul shrugged as he began to spin circles in his chair. 

“Just wanted to hear your voice again,” he lied, though he figured it was alright, seeing as there was some aspect of truth in there. “You’re not still mad at me for last week, are you?” Paul bit his lip and crossed his fingers as he hoped for the best, and sighed in relief as Dot chuckled. 

“Don’t be silly. I was just worried. Is that why you called? You were afraid I despise you now?” she asked and Paul ran a hand through his hair as he gathered up courage, figuring he might as well do it now. When he tried to speak, however, the words got lost halfway, and in the end it was Dot who spoke again, asking him about university and George and his life in general, and Paul answered accordingly, occasionally trying to guide the conversation to John, but found it hard to say anything about him. 

In the end, they just spoke for a while, and Paul made sure to ask about her as well, but with every good thing she told him about what was going on in her life, the more difficult it became for Paul to tell her the truth. It had been a while since he had last heard Dot this happy and carefree, and he didn’t want to ruin that with his stupid mistake, seeing it had already been his fault she hadn’t felt that way for so long in the first place. His kiss with John hadn’t meant anything, and Dot deserved the happiness she felt right now, seeing how hard the last two years had been on them. But at the same time, he knew Jane was right. He needed to tell her. She had to know… even if it would hurt her.

All too soon, though, Paul could hear the sound of a doorbell ringing on the other end of the line, signalling Dot’s friends had arrived and Paul groaned, knowing that if he was going to tell Dot today, he was going to do it now, possibly with them around. But he really didn’t want to hurt her. Not now… She was about to go out after all, he couldn’t just ruin her entire evening with his own stupid mistake, could he? 

“Oh sorry, love. The girls are here. I have to go,” Dot said, and her voice turned suddenly serious and full of concern. “You are alright, right?” 

Paul smiled weakly at that, wishing she wouldn’t ask, wishing they could just pretend the last two years hadn’t happened, but he knew she had every reason to. Dr Collins had told her to do so in the first place, and she had been doing it dutifully for months now. He hadn’t deserved Dot, and he still didn’t deserve her. She shouldn’t have to deal with this. With him. With his stupid issues.

“Dot,” he said and he knew he ought to say it now.  _ Dot, I kissed someone. I am sorry. I was drunk and it was a mistake. _ He could say it now and have it over with, but the concern in Dot’s voice made it impossible to do so. She deserved to have fun this evening, to not have to worry, to not have to fight with him again, to not have him ruin her night for once, like he had done countless of times before.  He knew he shouldn’t feel guilty about that, that it wasn’t his fault, but he could not agree to that. So he didn’t and forced himself to smile. “Have fun, yeah? Don’t worry about me. I’m more than alright.”

“Is George there if you need someone?”

“Yeah… Yeah, he is.”

“Okay good. Cause if you’re not, if you need to talk, and George isn’t there, you can always call me, okay? No matter what,” Dot said and Paul could hear her walk from room the room, doors shutting behind her, and he sighed. 

“I know. But I’m fine. No need to worry. Just have fun and… I’ll talk to you again later, yeah?” he asked and he could  _ hear  _ Dot smile as she agreed. 

“Yeah. Talk to you later, Paul! And don’t forget the picture I sent you. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” she said and with that they quickly said goodbye before she hung up on him, making Paul feel suddenly incredibly alone. 

He simply sat there for a while, chin resting on his knees as he stared at his Elvis calendar, wondering if he had done the right thing. His phone went off twice, and both times Paul declined it as he saw it was Jane, probably wondering how the talk had gone. A talk they hadn’t had, even though Paul knew they should’ve. He just felt so guilty… not necessarily about what had happened with John, but about everything having to do with Dot. She didn’t deserve him. She deserved more, she deserved to be happy and to be with a guy she wouldn’t constantly have to worry about, and who was still eager to talk to her every day and missed her and wanted to see her. Not someone who kissed other guys and was afraid of even just calling her. 

He glanced at the picture Dot had sent him, and it was exactly what he had expected and he felt a tingle in his crotch at the sight. Yet, he deleted it. It didn’t feel right, seeing her like that while she remained unaware of what he had done. 

Sighing, he put his phone aside and got up from his desk to collapse on the bed instead, feeling emotionally and physically drained. He landed half on top of his school bag and kicked it aside to make room for himself. It fell off his bed with a loud thud and glancing down at it, he noticed a couple of books, a pen, and his notebook had fallen out. Sitting up, he picked up the latter and opened it on a random page and began to leaf through it as he picked up said pen with his toes, thinking that maybe writing something would help him. Dr Collins had always encouraged him to write whenever he was feeling down or simply strange, and Paul had to admit it worked. As he skimmed through it, however, he saw some scribbles here and there in another person’s hand. At first he barely noticed them, but then his eye caught one of them. It was a little note, written next to one of his better songs with a tiny arrow pointing towards it. The handwriting, messy but small, was unfamiliar to Paul, but as he read what it said, there was no doubt in his mind who had written in it. 

_ “Not Bad, Mr Melody Man…”,  _ the text read and Paul stared at it in disbelief, before he silently grumbled John’s name to himself.  _ That fucker _ , he thought and with that he slammed his notebook shut and shot up from his bed, energy levels suddenly restored. Without so much as a thought, he stormed out of their flat and knocked onto John’s door, ready to confront him. John, however, didn’t answer, not even when Paul shouted at him to come out, and eventually he had to admit to himself that John simply wasn’t home. 

Grumbling some more curses, he tore a piece of paper from his notebook and hastily wrote John a warning note, telling him to never read or write in his journal ever again as he called him a twat and couple more inventive insults, before he folded it up and shoved it under his door for him to find. 

“Asshole,” he muttered, and kicked the offensive door in revenge before returning to his own flat, throwing the door shut behind him in frustration. He was going to get him back for this. Somehow. He threw himself onto his bed and cried until he heard George and Ringo come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, the song Paul and John listen to in the park is Dearest by Buddy Holly.


	5. In which Elvis makes a troublesome return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so sorry for how long its been since the last chapter of this. I didn't realise it had been so long, honestly! But here it is! Finally! 
> 
> Because the McLennon Big Bang is happening on again this year, I'll be focusing a lot on this story to get it over with. There will be two more chapters, so I hope it won't take me too long. I'll of course continue working on Art and Obligation (I'm definitely not stopping that one any time soon!), but I really just want to get this one done. It's been taking too long. 
> 
> Also, the end of the chapter is perhaps a little melodramatic, but it was partly meant to be because of Paul's history and his mental state, but we'll get into that more in the next chapter. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks everyone for being patient. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter, and please leave kudos and comments. I love you guys!

The incident with the notebook had left Paul more upset than even he had expected. For a while he didn’t so much as touch or even look at the leather book and let it lie at the bottom of his bedside table under a stack of books on such artists as Van Gogh, Caravaggio, and Edvard Munch. Although he had always had more of an appreciation for expressionist art, he also loved the older, more traditional and classical style of artists like Caravaggio, and often times he would just open a book when he had a moment to spare, not to read but to simply look at their works. But while his notebook lay hidden underneath, those books too remained where they were, not wanting to even risk catching a glimpse of the red cover.

He couldn’t believe John had read through it, that he had seen his deepest thoughts, struggles and concerns, which had to be clear even if they were hidden behind the thin veneer of his writings being “just songs”. They meant more than that to him: they were highly personal, as writings often were, but perhaps that was even more true for him, having always used writing as a form of therapy, a way of coming to grips with it all. Naturally, he didn’t think John had understood what those lyrics truly meant and the significance they held, but the fact that he had seen and read them behind his back, it had been crippling. 

The comments made it worse: not only did they act as a constant reminder that someone had read them, that someone knew, knew about him, his thoughts and his feelings and his problems, at the same time they also defaced those feelings everytime he read them. It felt like they had been rated, assessed to see which of his issues proved most valuable to his art, and while he knew John hadn’t meant it like that when he had written those little remarks, to Paul it was all the more humiliating, not to mention aggravating. His feelings weren’t something pretty to be evaluated based on beauty or artistic significance. The were real, they were ugly, and they hurt. 

In the moment, the realisation that John had done all that, intentionally or not, as well as the mess of conflicting feelings that came with it, had become too much for him. Already he had been on edge because of his phone call with Dot, and this, the invasion of his privacy, the fact that John now knew things about him that even Dr Collins or George or Dot didn’t know about, even if he might not understand them, had been the last drop, resulting in a violent eruption of all those feelings that had been aching to come out.

He was certain George and Ringo had noticed something had been wrong when they had come home that evening. Neither had said anything, though, and even now George pretended everything was fine, that he didn’t notice the hurt in Paul’s eyes when he was feeling particularly down, sometimes seemingly for no clear reason at all. He knew it was to be expected and that Paul would come to him if he needed to talk, so he merely kept a close eye on him to make sure it wouldn’t get worse and he wouldn’t do anything stupid, by accident or otherwise, ready to interfere if necessary. It wasn’t unusual for Paul to fall back into old behaviour, that occasionally he would return to his old state of mind, but as long as he bounced back again, it could even help him by showing that those feelings weren’t permanent, thus allowing him to rationalise them sooner as the fear of falling back into his old condition was reduced. Or so they had been told. Paul thought it was bullshit, but it offered George some peace of mind, so he didn’t argue.

As he considered all this for the umptheenth time that week, Paul nudged the front door of their apartment building open with his elbow and held firmly onto the two large grocery bags in arms as he shuffled his way inside, making sure to lift his feet up high enough so he wouldn’t accidentally trip over the threshold. His shoulder bag felt heavy as it hung uncertain from his left shoulder, and Paul had to curve his body at a rather awkward angle to make sure it didn’t slip off, which would surely end with his groceries laying spread out across the dirty linoleum flooring. 

It had been George’s turn to do groceries, seeing as his lecture ended at eleven in the morning, which meant he would have plenty of time for a quick trip to the supermarket, while Paul’s last lecture of the day ended only at four, if the lecturer finished on time. But of course the man had texted him last minute to say he was going to see a movie with Pattie and wouldn’t be back till seven, meaning that the task of making sure they had something to eat had been thrusted upon Paul’s already heavy shoulders once more, his school bag being heavy enough without also having to carry two bags of groceries home with him, because of course they had been fresh out of almost everything. Why George hadn’t done the shopping before he had gone off with his new girlfriend, Paul didn’t know, but he resented him a little for it. Thankfully, he managed to get inside without too much trouble. 

Relieved to have made it, Paul placed the two bags on a nearby table that stood by the door with a tired groan and hitched his school bag a little further up his shoulder - perhaps a backpack wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all - and took a moment to stretch his arms, which had gone stiff from carrying those bags from the bus stop all the way to their flat, which had been farther away than he had remembered. Now, he just needed to carry it up the stairs and down the hallway and he’d be home. He couldn’t wait to flop down onto the couch with a bottle of beer and his ready-made dinner and watch some telly for a while, to just be alone for an hour or two and do nothing and think of nothing, before he’d have to call Dot. He wasn’t looking forward to it. 

Taking a deep breath, he decided it was best to get it over with and make his way up stairs so he could finally do what he had been wanting to do ever since had woken up that morning, while mentally preparing himself for his talk with Dot. She had said she didn’t have a lot of time for him that evening, so if he  _ did _ tell her - finally - it would be swift and painful, like ripping off a bandaid - a bandaid that had somehow made the wound worse, because he knew Dot would not appreciate the fact that it had taken him literally weeks to finally have the guts to do it. 

He had been about to pick up his bags again, when he saw something orange slip past him from the corner of his eye. Frowning, he put the heavy bags back down, including his shoulder bag, which he dropped on the floor, and turned to see what it was.

The foyer was empty apart from him, with even the receptionist’s desk having been left unattended. The two grey couches - or benches as Paul called them, seeing as they were far too uncomfortable to classify as anything more in his opinion - on the one side of the room were empty too, and the little hallway where the postboxes were, was also deserted. For a moment, Paul thought he had been mistaken, when he caught sight of a flash of orange from underneath wooden coffee table by the seating area before it disappeared again. Careful to make as little noise as possible and not startle whatever was under the table, Paul tiptoed over to it and slowly sank down onto his knees to look under it, both hands on the floor, head cocked to the side. A small smile of recognition replaced his frown as he saw two yellow eyes staring directly at him. 

“And who do we have here? You’re not allowed to be here, you know,” Paul said, as he slowly reached out for the cat that was almost as troublesome as his owner, allowing him to sniff his fingers, before gently scratching him behind his black ear when the cat pushed his head against his hand and purred. Blessed that the cat had recognised him from their brief but intensely stressful adventure in the kitchen a few weeks ago, Paul made little kissy-noises at him and spoke in a high yet soft murmuring voice to persuade the animal he meant no harm.  

“Did you escape again?” he asked, speaking as if he was talking to a 6-months-old baby, “‘Cause you really shouldn’t, you know? They don’t allow pets in here and who knows what might happen when you get caught. John must be worried about you. Come on, boy. Let’s get you back home, yeah? Come on, Elvis.” 

The cat meowed in response and shuffled further away from Paul as the latter began to reach out for him in an attempt to pick him up, moving himself into a corner to escape the human’s grasping hands. When Paul made a further, slightly quicker, grasping motion in the hope to catch him by surprise, Elvis jumped away with another offended meow and slid under one of the couches, bending his body so he could just fit, there being barely any room for him. Paul cursed as his fingers only just managed to graze the multi-coloured fur.

“Shit! Elvis, come on. Let’s not play any games this time, okay? We don’t have time for this. Just come with me, and I’m sure John’ll have a nice treat for you. Just come with Uncle Paul, yeah? Please?” Paul practically begged as he crawled over to the couch on all fours, keeping his head lowered and cocked to the side so he could look under the couch, where Elvis was lying, just out of reach, watching him, and overall just looking like he was enjoying this little game of cat-and-mouse far too much.

“For fuck’s- I’m only trying to help, you know! If Mr Walford catches you… Ugh, come here, kitty-kitty. Come to Uncle Paul,” Paul tried again, finding the cat far too playful and too much like his owner. One annoying neighbour was enough. 

He shuffled closer until he lay on the floor with his shoulder pressed up against the underside of the couch, and could only just reach Elvis. Taking a deep breath to keep his calm, he patiently let Elvis sniff his hand again, before beckoning him over, wiggling his fingers to catch the animal’s interest as he slowly began to retreat his hand, hoping to lure him to him.

“Come on, boy. Come on,” he said, huffing, and slowly but surely Elvis began to move, intrigued by the swift curious movements of Paul’s fingers and Paul sighed in relief when Elvis was finally close enough for him to pick him up. He had been about to, when he heard an unexpected voice behind him, low and disgruntled, calling out his name. 

“Paul? What are you doing down there?” 

Paul winced and silently cursed everything he held dear - especially John for letting his damn cat escape again - as he moved back up onto his knees, gently holding Elvis in place with one hand as he looked over his shoulder to see Mr Walford, the landlord, standing a few feet behind him, watching him with a raised eyebrow, both hands on his hips, looking unamused by what was happening right before his very eyes. He grumbled as his eyes shifted from Paul to the cat, whose tiny head was sticking out from under the couch.

“Whose cat is that? We don’t allow pets in this building, Paul. You know that,” Mr Walford said, voice grumbling as he watched the cat with light disgust. 

“Oh, he isn’t mine, sir!” Paul hastily explained, moving the cat further out from under the furniture so he could pick him up, knowing it was futile as this point to try to hide him from view. Curling both his arms around the slight creature that felt so much smaller now, he pressed him against his chest, holding him close, as if to physically shield him from the glaring landlord. “I think he must’ve walked in here without anyone noticing. Maybe he’s a stray.”

“You shouldn’t play with strays, Paul. You never know what diseases they might be carrying around with them. They’re filthy. You might catch something.”

“Yes, sir. I was just going to take him outside,” Paul said, offering the man his best and most charming smile, that had gotten him out of plenty unpleasant situations before, and much to his relief, Mr Walford huffed in response as he nodded, beckoning Paul to get up. 

“Alright then,” he said and Paul quickly scrambled up, holding Elvis firmly against his chest so he wouldn’t accidentally fall, and gently petted him behind his ear to keep him calm as Mr Walford addressed him again. “Take it outside. But if I see that cat here ever again, it won’t be treated as kindly.” 

Paul nodded quickly to say he understood and waited for a moment as the landlord studied him for a moment longer, before he gave in with one last final sigh and motioned him to the door. Not needing to be told twice, Paul moved past him and hurried out of the door. He walked with the cat to the corner of the building so he was absolutely certain Mr Walford wouldn’t be able to see him and held the cat carefully in one hand as he pulled down the zipper of his coat with the other to about halfway. Then, he gently lifted the cat inside his coat and held him against his chest as he zipped his coat back up, leaving just enough room at the top so Elvis wouldn’t feel closed in, while still keeping his little head hidden from view. The cat purred at the warmness of the coat and rubbed his head against Paul’s chest, making him laugh as he held up the cat up by his butt, pushing the underside of his coat under it, so he wouldn’t slip out. 

“Now,” he said, addressing the cat, “you have to stay quiet. If Mr Walford catches us, we are both done for, so no tricks, okay?” 

Taking the animal’s soft but constant purring as a sign of understanding, Paul took a few deep breaths before he started heading back into his apartment building, preparing for the worst. 

“Now, remember what I said: all you have to do is be quiet. We’ll be past this horrible man soon, I promise,” he whispered into his coat as he pushed the door open and stepped bach inside. Mr Walford, who had taken a seat by the desk, looked up at the sound of the door opening and closing and smiled as he saw Paul coming back in, completely catless - at least, for as far as he could see. Instinctively Paul held onto the animal a little tighter and went to grab his things from the table as he kept an eye on the landlord, who had turned his back on Paul in favour of doing something on the computer. 

Making sure the man didn’t pay him any further attention, Paul hastily lifted his school bag back onto his shoulder, before taking a hold of the grocery bags again, which proved to be a hassle as he also had to make sure the cat didn’t slip out from under his coat. Luckily, the table was at just the right height that he could grab both bags at the same time and miraculously enough, he managed. With even more weight than with which he had started, he wished Mr Walford a good day and made his way towards the stairs, sighing once he was finally safe and out of sight. 

John bloody well owed him one for this. 

Once he had finally made his way up to the right floor, Paul dropped his heavy bags by John’s door and knocked, hoping the guy was actually in for once. Elvis gave a content little meow from inside Paul’s coat, clearly pleased with where he was, and Paul smiled down at him as he reached inside to pet him, while praising him for how well he had behaved. He opened his coat a little more, allowing Elvis’s head to pop free, his little ears flopping upwards as the material of the jacket gave way, making Paul chuckle at how adorable he looked. 

Finally the door opened and both Paul and Elvis looked up at the sound with surprise and curiosity respectively. For a moment, Paul couldn’t speak as his eyes moved up and down John’s form, taking in the rather distracting outfit he was wearing, being not yet properly dressed despite it being past five in the afternoon. Especially the low hanging pyjama bottom were more than a little off-putting.

“Well, aren’t you two all nicely cosied up together,” John remarked with a smirk as he looked the two of them up and down, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he leaned against the doorframe, his eyebrows raised at the sight of his cat inside Paul’s jacket. Paul huffed in response, but couldn’t get too annoyed with him, already relieved John was actually home this time, so he wouldn’t have to babysit and risk having Elvis break more of his things. The last time the victim had been an ugly vase of George’s that Paul was frankly glad to be rid of, but he doubted he’d be as lucky a second time. 

“Your cat escaped again. I was lucky enough to get to him before Mr Walford did, but God, John… Watch your cat next time. You’re playing with fire,” Paul said as he reached inside his coat to retrieve Elvis and hand him back to his rightful owner. The cat was none too happy about this, but still let himself be passed over from human to human with a tiny unhappy meow, his nails digging into the flesh of John’s hand, which John took without so much as a hiss of pain.

“Where did he run off to, then? I tried looking for him, but couldn’t find him. I figured he’d gone outside,” John asked, giving the animal a tiny kiss on his head as he held him in his arms, at which point Elvis retreated his claws.

“Downstairs in the foyer, hiding under the coffee table. And then under one of the couches. And then I had to sneak him up here when Mr Walford caught me with him. Like I said, John, you really ought to be more careful,” Paul said as he reached out for Elvis, petting him with a heavy sigh, not liking the idea of this adorable creature getting kicked out, especially with the way he was purring at his attention. 

“So, that’s why you had him-” he said, tugging at Paul’s still half-open coat.

“Oh, no! I always carry animals around in my coat,” Paul retorted as he slapped his hand away, looking up at the other man as if he was stupid, and John chuckled as he nodded, eyes focussed on Paul as he moved a little closer. 

“Okay. Fair enough! But erm… thanks for sneaking him back up here,” he admitted, an amused grin playing on his lips, and his eyes dropped down for a moment, before they found Paul’s eyes again. “You… want to come in? I’m not really doing anything so...”

“No, I- I think I’d better-” Paul started, pointing with his thumb towards his own door that was not three feet away, but John was quick to interrupt him.

“Oh, come on!” he said. “It’ll be fun! You can drop your stuff here for now. I’m just watching a movie and I’ve got beer and junk food! ‘Sides, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.” John wiggled eyes eyebrows as he stepped aside to make room for Paul to move past him, flashing him his most charming smirk and Paul felt his determination wavering as he glanced up at him, which was his first mistake. 

He could stay for an hour or so, though, couldn’t he? After all, he had basically planned on doing the exact same thing as what John was suggesting by himself and doing it with another person would be more fun. And besides, despite everything, they had had fun last time when they had gone out for coffee together, so why wouldn’t they this time? And just because they were hanging out together, in John’s flat, alone, drinking and watching a movie, with one of them not even properly dressed, that didn’t necessarily  _ mean  _ anything!

Sighing, he shook his head, knowing it wouldn’t be smart, even though he wanted to accept the invitation. But that was exactly the reason he had to say “no”! John, however didn't give up that easily.

“If this is about your notebook and that note you sent me-” 

“No! No, I just…”

“Because I’m sorry about that,” John continued, ignoring Paul’s words and taking a step closer to the younger man. Paul looked up at him in surprise, that being the last thing he had expected him to say. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I-I know! I... It’s just… I’ve got to call Dot later and the groceries-” 

“-can stay in my fridge, I told you. I haven’t got anything in there myself anyway apart from some beer bottles and a half-eaten package of ramen noodles - perhaps a lost tomato somewhere in the back - so it would be good to get some use out of the damn thing. Come on, sweetheart! I’m so lonely here all by myself. Just for an hour or so. I promise you’ll be in time to call the missus.” 

Paul laughed as John gave him one of his most dramatic pouts and before he could stop himself, he had nodded and agreed on the condition John wouldn’t call him by any more pet names, at which John grabbed him by his wrist and pulled him inside with one violent jerk, before pushing Elvis back into his arms so he could drag the groceries inside as well. 

John’s flat was pretty much identical to his and George’s: there was a small hallway, just large enough to dump your stuff, an impossibly small kitchen, a living room and two tiny bedrooms that shared one bathroom. The layout of the flat, however, had been flipped, leaving Paul momentarily disoriented as he made his way into the living room, followed by John who grunted as he pulled the heavy bags inside and left them by the door so Paul wouldn’t forget them. More as a precaution than because it was absolutely necessary, John took out the carton of milk and the eggs Paul had bought from the bags, those being the only things that absolutely had to be kept in the fridge. 

As for the interior, most of the basics were the same, with the flat having the same white walls, the same dark brown lino flooring - probably because it was easy to clean - and even most of the necessary furniture was the same, meaning that like he and George, John hadn’t swapped out the things the apartment came with either. The things that were his own, were rather dark in colour, being mostly grey, black and orange, with some hints of green here and there, which gave the apartment a much darker look than what Paul was used to, being more used to his and George’s very light and minimalist style. There was also not a single plant in sight, which Paul was certain would give George a heart-attack if he saw. 

It was also a lot messier, with books, journals, sheets of paper, pens and various articles of clothing laying strewn around the place. On the couch, there lay a mess of blankets and pillows, and a couple of empty beer bottles stood on the coffee table, which Paul didn’t doubt had there been for longer than today. The tv was on, paused, showing a what looked like a high school classroom. The shot, however, told Paul nothing of the film John had been watching, though he had to admit the whole look of it was faintly familiar to him. And not in a good way. 

“Sorry for the mess,” Paul could hear John mutter from the hallway. 

“That’s alright. What were you watching, anyway?” Paul asked, turning to John, who was standing a little behind him, watching him, eggs and milk in hand. 

“Erm…  _ Twilight _ _...”_ he answered, giving Paul a pained smile as the latter stared at him in disbelief.

“And you’re watching that because...?” he asked, snickering at how ridiculous it sounded as he put Elvis back on the floor, watching him rush into one of the bedrooms.

“It was on,” John answered with a shrug.

“John, you’re watching it on Netflix.” 

“Exactly… it was on,” John repeated with another nonchalant shrug, before heading for the kitchen to put Paul’s stuff away, causing Paul to chuckle as he took a seat on the couch, pushing some of the pillows and blankets aside to make some room for himself. 

“I can’t believe  _ you _ watch  _ Twilight _ _,”_ he said, still chuckling. 

“I don’t!” came John’s answer from the kitchen, “I was bored and I came across it whilst going through Netflix, so I decided to give it shot. To see if it was really so bad as everyone said it was. I’d never seen it before.” 

Paul just snickered, shaking his head in disbelief, and, turning around, he let his head rest on the backrest of the couch as he watched John reappear, two bottles of beer and an already opened bag of crisps in hand. Paul had to admit the guy looked great, even in this messy state, with his ruffled, unkempt hair - looking all curly and soft - and his light blue pyjama bottoms that showed off his hip bones and that terrible “daddy’s little kitten” shirt he was wearing above it. It was a sight that was very pleasing indeed, and Paul wondered when he had decided to simply accept that rather than be embarrassed about it. He feared it had happened somewhere during their coffee date last week. 

“Nice shirt, by the way” he remarked as he took in the sight, and watched John with a teasing smirk as the latter came to sit down on the couch next to him, a matching smirk of his own adorning his handsome face. 

“It was a gift from Stu. You know, the guy you met when we were out for coffee together. The skinny guy with the sunglasses? It was meant kind of like a coming-out present, if there is such a thing, and more as a joke than anything else. But to tell you the truth, it’s surprisingly comfy! And Stu hates seeing me wear it and I live to annoy him, so as I’m sure you can understand, I have to wear it now at every opportunity,” he said, smirking as Paul laughed at him again. 

“And you think you’re going to see him today, then?”

“Maybe. I mean, we’re roommates - or at least technically, we are - so there is a chance he might come home this evening. Lately, though, he’s been living more with his girlfriend than with me, but he’s here at least once or twice a week. Sometimes just to pick up or dump some stuff, but still. He gets so see this wonderful shirt and that’s all that matters.” 

“That must kind of suck, though, doesn’t it? 

“Eh, I’m fine with it now. Beats waking up to them having sex in the middle of the night, anyway,” John said, and Paul could only agree with that, seeing as George and Pattie’s sex life was slowly starting to get on his nerves as well, especially when his own was in such shambles. “Anyway, you ready for some  _ Twilight ?”  _

“Ugh! Do we really have to?” 

“Yes! I mean, I have to watch it at least once, don’t I? Besides, it’s really not that bad so far.” 

“You’re kidding, right?” Paul asked, raising an eyebrow, but when John just nodded, all Paul could do was stare at him in disbelief. 

“I’m serious! I mean, it’s not  _ good _ _,_ but it’s just your typical teen angst movie and pure wish fulfillment, and honestly, I’ve seen worse. Then again, I’m only like 7 minutes in or something, so who knows what might still happen.”

Knowing that there was nothing he could say that would change John’s mind, thus rendering Paul with little choice, he gave in with a sigh and a reluctant nod, at which John immediately pressed play before opening one of the beer bottles and handing it to Paul almost as a peace offering. 

“No glass?” Paul remarked at he took it, and John shrugged. 

“Fewer dishes for me,” he replied with a wink, which Paul had to admit was fair enough. 

Although both men tried to focus on the film, wanting to give it a fair chance, not ten minutes passed before they were talking animatedly about university and friends as well as some major news stories they had seen on the news as they watched the film, occasionally cracking a few jokes at the expense of the (lack of) plot and Edward’s undeniable creepiness, which John imitated with hilarious accuracy. Still Paul had to admit that although he could hardly say it was a good movie, it wasn’t all as bad as it had been made out to be. It was as John had said: just an angsty teen romance movie that was pure wish fulfillment, containing barely any plot and being so full of clichés, you could make a drinking game out of it, which they briefly considered doing, only to decide against it as Paul had remembered Dot and John had realised he didn’t have nearly enough alcohol for it. But in all honesty, as long as you didn’t take it too seriously and watched it with a friend so you could make jokes about it to keep your sanity - and John had a great knack for making anything funny - it was surprisingly bearable.

An hour in, Paul still had trouble figuring out exactly what the plot of the film was supposed to be, but he hardly cared, his and John’s conversation being much more interesting and John’s jokes far more entertaining than anything the film had to offer. He had made himself more comfortable, having taken off his shoes and laid down on the couch, with his feet laying in John’s lap, so he could more easily look at him rather than the film, preferring that view even during the scenes with Robert Patterson that were specifically designed to make the blood of the intended young female audience run faster, which somehow included John. Paul had nearly finished his second beer and felt the need to use the restroom, but at the same time he couldn’t be bothered, being far to comfortable where he was. 

“To be fair, if you were a sparkly vampire, I’d a goner too,” John said, eyes glued to the screen where Bella almost seemed to be needing to be hospitalised for simply being near Edward, with his pretty sparkling skin. “Especially if you looked like Robert Pattinson.” 

“Eh. I never really cared for Robert Pattinson, if I’m honest,” Paul said, turning his head to the tv screen as he gave the actor a quick once over, frown on his forehead. John turned to look at him in surprise. 

“Really?!” 

“Yeah. I mean, he’s definitely not ugly! And he’s nice enough to look at, but… I guess, he’s just not my type.” 

“And what  _ is  _ your type, then, if I might ask?” John asked, sitting up and licking his lips as Paul turned to look at him again. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he replied, hoping that would be the end of it, but of course, it wasn’t, because he was talking to John, and he never let anything go once he had sat his mind to it. The fact that he was here right now was proof enough of that. 

“Come on, Paulie. Tell us, eh? I bet you like bad boys. Like that pot smoking ex-boyfriend of yours. Is that why you like me? Am I the bad boy you so desperately want to fix? I mean, you did  _ kiss me _ _._ There’s no denying that.” 

“Who says I’m denying it?” 

“The same guy who says you’re avoiding the question,” John retorted, smirking, and when Paul just rolled his eyes at him, he added, “is that why you don’t like Robert Pattinson, then? Sparkly vampires not bad enough for you, eh? Need bad boy Johnny to treat you right instead?” 

“You are awful!” Paul said, shaking his head in disapproval as he gently kicked John’s thigh with his foot, but John just smiled at him as he leaned even closer towards him, hand firmly grasping his ankle.

“Admit it, darling! You like me. We both know you do.” 

“I’ve got a girlfriend, remember?” 

“Yes, seeing as you barely give me a chance to forget. But that doesn’t change the fact that you like me. Or was the song about smug guys in tight black jeans and thick-rimmed glasses that you wrote in your notebook not about me?” 

“You weren’t meant to read that,” Paul muttered softly, his half-annoyed, half-amused smile fading at the mention of his notebook, his throat feeling raspy and dry. He had almost forgotten about that, and the sudden mention of it brought back all those previous feelings again, nearly making him want to run out. 

“But it  _ was _ about me?” John pressed on, barely seeming to notice the change of mood in his friend.

“John…” Paul tried again as he began to get up, but before he could, John pressed him back onto the couch. 

“Paul, I know you’re embarrassed about me having read your work, and I already told you I was sorry for having done so without your permission, but you really don’t have to be! They’re bloody good, okay! And besides, if that song was about me, which I think it was, I’m flattered you wrote that about me. Even if you basically said I was an asshole, you still called me a  _ sexy _ asshole, so really, I’m fine with it. You should have more confidence in your work, you should.”

“No, it’s not that…”

“Then what is it?” John asked. “What about that stupid notebook could possibly be so important that you are still that upset about me reading it?! It’s been weeks!” 

Despite John’s obvious annoyance, it sounded more directed at his own failure to understand than at Paul. Paul, however, wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell John at all, not knowing how he would react to the truth, having no clue what John’s stance on such issues was, and over the past few years he knew how differently people could react to what had happened. His closest friends had all been supportive, as had most of his family - the important part of his family, anyway - but John was neither friend nor family, and neither was he foe, leaving Paul with no clue as to how he would respond. And even if he would react positively, it wasn’t that he  _ wanted _ John to know either. He barely knew him, and really, it was none of his business. Just because they had kissed once, which in Paul’s mind barely even counted, seeing how drunk and high he had been, didn’t mean John had the right to know his entire life’s story. 

“They’re just songs…” John muttered as Paul remained silent, and although Paul knew he only wanted to help, it was completely the wrong thing to say in that moment.

“They’re not _ just _ songs,” he said before he could stop himself. His voice had been quiet as he had said it and Paul briefly hoped John hadn’t heard him over the sound of the tv that was still on in the background, but judging by the way John was staring at him, frown on his face, clearly not understanding at all what Paul was saying, he knew he had heard, leaving him with no choice now but to explain. 

“Most of them aren’t, anyway,” he continued, taking a deep breath as he looked up at John nervously. “Songwriting isn’t just something I do for fun, John. For me… Well… It’s like therapy almost, you know?” 

“Therapy?” 

Paul nodded. 

“What do you need therapy for?!” John asked, with more force than Paul could handle at that point, making him shuffle anxiously in his seat as his eyes shifted instinctively to the door, as if looking for an escape. 

“M-maybe I should just go-”

“What? No! You can’t go now! What’s wrong? What do you need therapy for? I promise I won’t make fun of you if that’s what you’re worried about. I just… want to know.”

Glancing back at John, Paul was surprised at the worry he saw in his eyes as he stared at him, anxiously waiting for him to continue, waiting for an answer, wanting to understand. 

“Well, I er…” he started, taking a deep breath before continuing, “firstly, I didn’t quit medical school because I didn’t like it anymore. In fact, quitting was the exact thing I  _ didn’t _ want to do.” 

He paused for a moment to think of how he was going to explain it. “It was stupid, really, and I’m glad I did now, but… I was having some issues back then. I won’t bore you with all that, because it’s really not important, and I don’t really like thinking about it, but I had to quit uni because of it and to deal with it, my therapist advised me to keep a journal to help process my thoughts.” 

“And that’s what your notebook was?”

“Was. Is. I wasn’t good at actually writing down my thoughts and feelings - I still can’t - but with songwriting… it just comes out, and it helps. It’s easier, to be able to look at it but not having to see it written down there explicitly. I mean, not all of the songs in there are like that, but most of them are and so when you read them and commented on them...”

“Shit, Paul... I didn’t know! Why didn’t you tell me?” John asked and Paul scoffed at the mere suggestion of it. 

“I don’t know, John. For some reason I don’t really like telling people I just met such personal things, but that must just be me,” he said, with a faint chuckle. It was more from relief that John took it so well, though the way the man cursed himself silently at his stupid remark, was admittedly somewhat amusing, if not endearing. 

“What happened, then? At uni, I mean? Were you depressed or…?” John asked after a moment of silence, curious to know more, only to quickly add he didn’t have to tell him if he didn’t want to or felt too uncomfortable to, but Paul told him it was alright, appreciating the way John didn’t try to press him and instead seemed genuinely interested yet concerned.  

“It wasn’t quite like that, no. For me, life just got too much at some point. Everything got too much and then finally I couldn’t deal with it anymore and I shut down.” 

“Shut down?”

“I was told I had a mental breakdown of some sorts. My dad took me back home with him when he came to visit me one day and saw how bad it was. I-I never went back.”

“But you’re alright now?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I mean, as fine as I can be. These things, they take a while, but I can do everything again and generally I feel good. Or I think I do. It’s a little weird. I haven’t felt truly “good” for a long time, so it takes some time getting used to.” 

“Christ, Paul…” 

“But really, I’m fine!” Paul hastily insisted as he realised how that had sounded, “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?! You had a mental breakdown and you're telling me it’s not a big deal?” 

“It’s been two years since then, John. I’m alright. Really,” he assured him, and although John still looked unsure, he gave in, sighing as he nodded. 

“Alright. Yeah… If you say so. Thanks for telling me, though. I er… I can’t imagine it’s easy. I certainly wouldn’t be able to if I were in your place…”

“Don’t think because I’m telling you now, that it’s easy to talk about or that I even want to. You kinda left me with little choice, but… I mean not telling people was kinda why it got as bad as it did. And having something like that happen to you, it’s kind of a wake-up call you know? You’ve got to be honest with yourself and others, even if it’s scary. Somethings you simply cannot do on your own. There’s nothing weak about that.”

“You’ve been telling a lot of people, then?”

“No. Just those who matter. I prefer not to. People look at you different when they know,” he said. When John just nodded, he took his chance to change the subject, having had quite enough of it. “Now, enough of this! Let’s watch a film that’s actually good, shall we? I’m done with  _ Twilight  _ for today and seeing as you’re clearly terrible at picking movies, I’ll pick something for us this time.” 

Not waiting for a response, he got up to get the remote from the coffee table and turned off the film, unable to take it any longer, and searched through the available films until deciding on  _ The Pink Panther _ _,_ hoping the comedy and intrigue would lighten the mood and move them on from this conversation. 

“You know, Paul, you should have stopped me sooner if you were going to pick something like this for us to watch!” John said as the film popped up on the screen, recognising it right away.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” Paul laughed and sat back down on the couch, closer to John than last time and drank from his beer as they watched the opening credits, humming along to the all too familiar theme song together, feet moving along to the song, before falling silent as the film truly began. 

The transition from the serious subject to the film was easier than Paul had expected, as John seemed to move on from their conversation with relative ease. They could watch the film without any sort of awkwardness and laugh at the jokes without it feeling weird, for which Paul couldn’t help but be thankful, having feared that the same thing would happen between John and him as had between him and another old friend.  

After half an hour, John got them both something to eat as they began to feel rather peckish. Despite Paul’s suggestion to pause the film while he did so, John insisted he didn't, which in turn only resulted in Paul having to shout what was happening on screen back at John, something that proved impossible as Paul couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous they were being. Annoyed at having missed a good ten minutes of the film, which he blamed on Paul’s utter inability to take his task serious, John for a moment refused to speak to Paul as they continued watching the movie, which only made Paul laugh more. 

In the end, the only way for him to make it up to John was by giving him both his sausages, which came with his microwaved meal, and which John accepted as a peace offering with unrestrained eagerness. For Paul, though, it didn’t matter seeing as he didn’t eat meat anyway and would have given them to John regardless of whether or not he was upset with him. Not that he told John that, of course. 

It was only when the film ended that Paul thought of checking the time. John got up to take the rubbish away - they had eaten out of the plastic containers with plastic forks to save John from doing the dishes again - and asked Paul if he wanted some coffee, to which Paul replied with an eager “yes”, as he took his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He nearly dropped it on the floor when he saw the time. Needless to say, 7.30 had long passed. 

“Oh fuck!”

“What? What happened?” John called from the kitchen, only the appear in the doorway not a second later with two coffee mugs in hand. All Paul could do was stare at his phone as he cursed himself under his breath, unable to understand why he was this fucking stupid. 

“Dot! I forgot to call Dot. Why didn’t you say anything!?” he exclaimed, still staring at the four digits on his phone, as if hoping they would change to something else and someone was just playing a trick on him somehow. 

“Don’t go blaming me, dear! I didn’t know what time you were meant to call her!”

“Ugh, she’s going to be pissed!”

“Well, what are you staring at your phone for then? Call her, stupid!”

“Right! Yes. Call her. Yes.”

Swallowing thickly, he unlocked his phone with trembling fingers and selected Dot’s number, ignoring the frustrated texts he had gotten, asking him where he was and why he wasn’t answering his phone. He hoped, perhaps rather foolishly, that she wouldn’t be upset with him for constantly forgetting their dates - because really, their calls was the closest things they had to dates these days. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long before she picked up. 

“Paul?” 

“Dot! Fuck, I-I’m sorry. I’m  _ so  _ sorry. I didn’t know it was so late already!” Paul tried, clutching at his phone so hard it hurt his hand, his foot tapping rapidly on the floor. Dot, however, didn’t pay any attention to his apologies. 

“Where even are you right now?! I tried George, but he said you just didn’t come home!”

“I’m at a friend’s.”

“At a friend’s?!”

“Yes! I do actually have friends. Just because I haven’t come home doesn’t mean I’ve died or gotten lost or have been kidnapped!” Paul replied defensively without thinking, regretting it as soon as he had said it. 

“Well, I’m sorry for being worried, but the last time you suddenly didn’t come home, your dad found you spacing out on your bedroom floor!” 

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. Shit, Dot. That’s not going to happen. I’m fine! I-” he started, but Dorothy interrupted him, her voice sounding more tired than angry, which Paul knew to be worse. 

“I worry about you, Paul. I can’t help it. When you don’t answer your phone and no one knows where you are, it… it scares me.” 

“Dot, honey, I’m fine. I promise you. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Maybe that’s the problem...” Dot muttered in a tone that Paul didn’t know how to place. 

“W-what do you mean by that?” he asked, although somewhere he knew where this was going. He could hear it in everything: in her words, her tired voice, her lack of anger, and the sigh that followed. She was fed up. “Dot?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.”

“What do you mean? Not do what anymore?” Paul asked, his phone beginning to slip from his hand as fear grasped at his heart. Dot, however, didn’t answer. 

“Where are you?” she asked instead. 

“I told you, I’m at a friend’s place. Dot, what do you mean you don’t know if we should be doing this anymore?”

“What friend’s place?” Dot pressed on, and Paul froze for a moment. 

“John’s. Our neighbour,” he answered. 

“You mean the guy who brought you home that time you got drunk during that poetry reading event?”

“Yes, he er... he’s nice, actually.” 

“Yes, I thought you’d think that...”

“Dot?” 

There was a pause before she finally answered. “Paul, I know you kissed him. I know you were drinking and got high and then you kissed him before he brought you home. I know.” 

“H-how did you-?”

“I’m not stupid. Pauline told me. Stuart’s sister. He’s a friend of John’s, I believe. Not to mention that I found a particularly interesting tweet from the man himself that pretty much proved it. I didn’t want to believe it at first. I wanted to hear it from you first, but-”  
“Tweet? What tweet?” Paul asked, frozen in place. He hadn’t seen any tweets about them when he had gone through John’s twitter feed that one time. Well, except for that one about kissing guys who had just thrown up, but… that couldn’t be the one she meant! It didn’t even mention his name or anything else that could point to the fact that he was the one John had kissed that time. Surely she wouldn’t have been able to draw any conclusions from that one. Could she? Or was it just that obvious? 

“You know, the one about the two of you on a date at a coffee shop about a week ago? Something about ‘getting coffee with the cute throw-up guy?’ or something along those lines. I recognised your bracelet, the one I gave you for your birthday. Really, Paul. If you’re going to cheat-”

“I wasn’t cheating! Dot, that didn’t mean anything! Yes, I kissed him, but Dot… I was drunk. And high! It didn’t mean anything! That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to get upset about nothing. And that thing at the coffee shop was nothing! We just got some coffee together after class. As friends! That wasn’t a date! I swear, Dot.”

“Well your supposed ‘friend’ certainly thought it was.”

“It was  _ nothing! _ I swear! It was a joke! A stupid joke. To embarrass me. He likes making jokes and embarrassing me with stuff like that because he knows I love you, okay? Dot, I love you, you hear me? I love  _ you .” _

“I know you do. But fuck Paul… why didn’t you fucking tell me? Whether it meant something or not-”

“I was going to! I swear I was. I tried. Before. But shit, Dot…. I didn’t want to hurt you. I knew how you’d react, and with every day that passed when I didn’t tell you, I knew I was just making it worse. And I tried, but every time something came up, like a birthday or you working late. And yes! I chickened out. And yes! I know I should have told you. But Christ, Dot, it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t mean to betray you. I wouldn’t do that. Not to you. Never to you.” 

“And yet you did.” 

“No, Dot, please-” Paul tried again, feeling where this was going, and not wanting it to, regretting every moment when he had even dared to think about what was now surely about to happen, every moment he had considered doing it himself. 

“Paul,” Dot said, the calmness in her voice only making Paul more afraid. 

“I’m so sorry, honey. We can work it out. I promise it was nothing. I-” 

“Paul,” she simply said again, even softer this time, and for whatever reason, it got Paul to stop, his breathing slowing, his fingers trembling even more. 

“Y-yes?”

“Maybe it’s better if we stop.”

“S-stop? No, Dot, I-”

“Come on, Paul. You, me, this whole thing, it- it’s not working anymore. It hasn’t been working for a long time and I don’t care how often you tell me you love me. I know you love me and God knows I love you but… sometimes it isn’t about that, you know? I mean, who are we even fooling anymore?”

“Dot...” Paul said again, only to fall silent, having no words left that would change her mind, that could change any of this. She was right. 

***

The world felt hollow as Paul came home that evening. The sounds were far away and almost inaudible, the light didn’t seem to be landing on his eyes and the air seemed to have vanished, leaving behind nothing, not even pressure. Everything he touched offered resistance, but yet he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel the texture, the shape, whether it was hot or cold, hard or soft, solid or liquid. He could only touch, but he couldn’t feel. He could hear but not listen. He could make sound but not speak. Nothing was making sense. 

He could hear voices, unreal voices, lacking pitch and air, talking gibberish that faintly sounded like English. He couldn’t understand them. Couldn’t even understand what “English” was, only that whatever those voices were saying, that was “English”. They were laughing, speaking, and they were loud, too loud. 

The only thing he could feel was the nausea in his stomach and the only thing he could hear the sounds of Dot’s voice, saying the same things over and over again, no matter how hard to he tried to push it away from his mind. He couldn’t believe it had happened, couldn’t believe that after weeks they had finally had that conversation, that they had finally addressed the issues they had been having for month, before he had even left Liverpool, before he had decided to go back to university. She was gone now - actually gone - and it left Paul feeling empty, empty in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time, and it scared him. He had sat on John’s couch for another hour, after they had hung up, not speaking, unmoving, until John had guided him home, not knowing what else to do. 

Stepping into the living room, he noticed George and Pattie on the couch, curled up together, sharing take-out chinese food, feeding each other bites, but all Paul could see was himself and Dot, doing the same thing, not too long ago, back at home, in Liverpool, one evening when his father and brother had both been out. Dot had looked beautiful then, blue eyes sparkling, blond hair curling in that perfect way around her ear, his hand on her tummy, feeling-

“Paul! God, Paul, what happened to you! Dot said she couldn’t reach you, but I just thought you were with friends or something. Jesus, what happened to you? Come sit down,” George exclaimed as he saw the state his friend was in, and Paul wondered briefly just how bad he looked: pale face, red eyes, hunched-over, moving slowly from the shock. Before he could say anything, which wasn’t as quick as it otherwise might be, George was at his side, holding him by his arm, a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the couch as Pattie moved some stuff aside to make room for him. Her expression was weird. And her eyes… so blue. 

He was sitting down. He didn’t realise he had been moving to do so, but he was sitting down, and yet he could not feel the couch under him. George was next to him, saying words Paul couldn’t understand, while Pattie sat in front of him on the coffee table, watching him with that same odd expression. He knew he had to say something. He had to say what had happened. George expected him to, even though the reason why didn’t make any sense to him at the moment. He had been in this situation before. He knew what people wanted. Even if it didn’t make sense.

“Dot.”

“What about Dot, Paul? Did you talk to her?” George asked, voice calm and soft, almost a whisper, which to Paul still sounded too loud. He nodded. 

“She- she broke up with me. Dot broke up with me,” he finally managed, and before he knew what he was doing, he had fallen against George’s chest and silent tears were streaming down his cheeks. “She broke up with me.” 


	6. In which music lightens pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter is here!! It took me ages to edit, but I did it! I swear, I've never spent this long on editing before. But big shout out to Chut-Je-Dors, for proof reading all the different versions and giving me advice and getting me through it by making all of her stupid jokes. Thanks, girl! I owe you (but we had already established that) <3 
> 
> So, this chapter is the most depressing one of all of them and is mainly the reason why I failed to make this just a happy fluff fic like I originally intended. Anyway, it's really long and mainly dialogue with some cute moments thrown in so I hope you like it. 
> 
> Only one more chapter to go after this one, and I have already planned it out and I'm so excited for it. I hope you guys are going to like the ending. 
> 
> Oh, and I did add a tag or two because of this chapter, so check that if you feel there might something coming up that might upset you for any reason. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for the amazing support and all the comments and everything. Please keep them coming. I genuinely live for them and can't do without them. I love you all! Enjoy the chapter :)

The air was thin around him as Paul sat on his bed, back against the wall, legs pulled up to his chest, and his bare feet planted firmly on the mattress as he held onto them, his chin resting on his knees. His phone lay ever silent beside him, taunting him whenever it buzzed as another spam email entered his mailbox. He wasn’t sure what he expected, though, as it was pretty obvious Dot wasn’t going to call him. She had even asked Paul not to call her either, something which he now regretted agreeing to. He intended to keep that promise, though; seeing as he had broken nearly every other promise he had made to her, it was the least he could do.

George was sitting on the floor in front of him, legs folded under himself and his head resting on the mattress as he watched him in silence, waiting for Paul to speak first. Three days had passed since the phone call, and Paul knew his behaviour and lack of willingness to talk was worrying him. He had refused to attend any lectures and favoured staying inside in his room, listening to music and being sad, miserable and alone, to hanging out with friends or going for a healthy jog through the park like he normally would. He had refused to speak to anyone and even Jane hadn’t been able to get through to him when she had come over. Simply said, he didn’t feel like talking. He didn’t feel like anything except staying in and wallowing in sadness and self-pity, something no one appeared to understand.

Another ping from his phone made him glance sideways, only to see it was another stupid Facebook message about a group project for one of his courses, and Paul had to do everything in his willpower to keep himself from throwing his phone across the room. He nearly would have, had George not noticed the sudden tension in his body and laid a gentle hand on top of Paul’s, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“Paul, you know you can’t keep sitting here like this,” he finally said, changing his tactic, and Paul could do little else but roll his eyes. “It’s been three days. This isn’t healthy.”

Paul said nothing and turned away from his friend, having had this one-sided conversation before with Jane when she had come over. He already knew how the rest would go.

“I know you need time to get past this, but it worries me when you act like this,” George continued, his hand still holding onto Paul’s, “I- I don’t want you to fall back.”

“George…” Paul interrupted, voice weak, tired from the lack of sleep, tired from people constantly worrying about him as if he could collapse at the slightest hint of a drawback unless he was properly looked after, “I’ll be fine. I just need some time. To be alone, to think, to-”

Truth be told, he didn’t know what he needed. He needed time, he needed _this_ _,_ but what _this_ was exactly, or why he needed it, he didn’t know. Still, he understood George’s fear. It haunted him too, and it made is throat tightened and his stomach feel queasy whenever he considered it. The thought had infiltrated his mind regularly over the last few days, and with each time it became harder and harder to shrug it off. He didn’t want that. He never wanted to go back to that, to that pit of uselessness, darkness, and intense fear at _everything_ _._ Never again did he want to be swallowed up and feel that dull, constant pain. And yet… here he was, and although it wasn’t as bad as it had been last time, he couldn’t help but fear the possibility.

“I-I never realised how much I depended upon her, you know? Even when she wasn’t here and we barely spoke, she still-  Just knowing she was there... thinking about me... it- it helped. And even when I couldn’t do it anymore, even though we were hundreds of miles apart, she was still there for me, you know? I could call her and I didn’t even need to say anything. She just _knew_ _._ B-bu-but now she’s… she’s gone… Fuck, Geo… I- I don’t know how to… to… I don’t know how-” Paul instinctively hugged his legs closer as he buried his face in between his knees, his body shaking as fear gripped him. Dot was _gone._ She couldn’t help him anymore. He pushed George’s arm away when he tried to hug him, the contact, although well intended, only making him more agitated.

“Paul, you were doing fine on your own. You’ve been fine for months now, with _and_ without her. You went back to university-”

“I know! I-I was! I don’t know why…” Paul choked back a cry, shaking his head, but he couldn’t get any more words out; his body was tense and trembling all over. George was still squeezing his hand, but Paul could barely feel it. He needed to cry, needed to get it out, all of it, all those emotions, but his body wouldn’t let him. He was closed in.

“Come on, Paul. Deep breaths. Remember? In… one… two… three… Out… one… two… three… In… one… two… three… Yes, that’s it. Just breathe. In… and out. You’re okay, Paul. You’re not alone. You’ve got me, you’ve got Ringo, you’ve got your dad, your brother, and Jane. We’re all here for you. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“I- I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” George said in a much sterner tone than anticipated, each word making Paul’s already erratic breathing stock. “You are going to be alright. I know you miss her. It’s okay. You’ve been together for three years! But Paul, you don’t _need_ her. You can do this on your own, with _our_ help. She wouldn’t have ended it with you if she had thought there was even the slightest chance you wouldn’t make it without her. She knows you better than anyone else, Paul. She knows you’ll be fine without her. And you know you’ll be fine without her too. You knew your relationship was coming to an end. You told me that yourself. You wouldn’t have said that if you still needed her.”

“I know. But… God, George… I- I don’t know what to do!” Paul said, face still buried between his knees, and this time he didn’t pull away when George pulled himself up onto the bed next to Paul and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him to him. No, this time he leaned into the man’s warmth, hands coming up to clutch as his shirt for a moment, before they fell down again, landing limply on the bed as his body slackened in exhaustion.

“You know, you can always call Dr Collins?” George suggested, but Paul shook his head.

“No. It’s fine. I just need some time. It’s a silly thing to bother him with.”

“It’s not silly…” George said, and Paul had to suppress the urge to scoff, knowing very well it was. Dr Collins had better things to do than listen to a 21-year-old whine about a stupid breakup. And besides, what could he possibly say to make him feel better, anyway? He and Dot were over and he would just have to deal with that. Somehow.

He leaned further into George’s touch, needing the comforting warmth of his body. George was right: he wasn’t alone, he didn’t need Dot anymore, and he would be fine on his own, with his friends and family, who were all there for him. Or, at least, eventually he would be. For now, he just needed time. Time to fully grasp that what George had said and that he was okay. After three, almost four years, after all they had gone through, he could only hope Dot didn’t think it had been a waste of time now their relationship was over, now they knew it hadn’t been forever, as they had once thought. Once they had been engaged, once they had almost been a family, and now… now that was all over and gone and it would never happen again for them. Not together at least.

“Sometimes I wonder what our relationship would’ve been like if all those things hadn’t happened, you know? If we hadn’t wasted all that time,” Paul heard himself say. He hadn’t meant to ask that question, but he was certain he could hear himself ask it. George hugged him a little tighter.

“It wasn’t wasted, Paul. If anything it brought you closer. You shouldn’t blame your break up on those things. This isn’t your fault, nor is it hers. Sometimes… it just doesn’t work out. And neither of you would have stuck with it if you didn’t love each other. You were together for three years! You should cherish that, even if it didn’t end the way either of you had thought.”

“I suppose,” Paul muttered in reply, at which George gave him a gentle smile, and squeezed him tightly for the final time, before he started to pull away, much to Paul’s regret, who had started to take comfort in their intimate position. Still, he didn’t object.

“You er… want to go out and do something? Maybe something to take your mind of the whole thing? Go for a walk? Get some fresh air? Or just watch a movie with Richie and me?” George asked, but Paul shook his head.

“No. I-I’d like to be alone for a moment. Maybe later,” he said and much to his relief, George just nodded in understanding this time.

“Alright. If you need us, just shout, okay? Oh! But, I _am_ going to make you some lunch. You’ve barely eaten a thing over these last few days and that really can’t be good for you,” George said as he got up, slapping Paul’s knee in a brotherly fashion in the hope to raise his spirit and Paul hated himself for the soft hint of a grin that rose onto his lips in response.

“Thanks, Geo,” he replied and with one last nod, George left, closing the door behind him. For a moment, Paul could hear Ringo’s voice from the living room, asking George how he was holding up, and Paul was grateful George closed the door behind him before answering, so he wouldn’t have to listen to them talk about him. He knew they would anyway, but he much preferred it when he couldn’t hear them.

He let himself fall sideways on the bed with an exhausted groan and put his phone away on his nightstand with the screen facing down so he wouldn’t have to see it light up whenever he would get another stupid notification. He was exhausted, the dark thoughts that kept entering his mind making it impossible for him to find any sleep or rest. His eyelids were heavy, his mind slow and he was oddly aware of his own corporeality as he laid on the bed, but he forced his eyes to remain open, knowing he wouldn’t be able to find sleep anyway. His little red notebook lay on the windowsill - he had taken it out two days ago in the hope he would be able to write about what he was feeling, but his pen had remained motionless as he had pressed it onto the blank page, all words having lost him. He thought about trying again, if only to give himself something to do, but he couldn’t find the energy, neither did he feel much like writing. He didn’t know what he felt like.

He lay there for a good fifteen minutes, hugging his pillow and staring at the white paint that had started peeling away at the bottom of his bedroom door, revealing the light wood underneath. He followed the cracked lines with his eyes, watching them go upwards and downwards, to the left and to the right, in all sorts of haggard directions, until the door opened again and George came in carrying a large steamy mug of tea - in his favourite _"I’m a happy go lucky ray of fucking sunshine"-_ mug, of course - and a plate of avocado on toast. He had even put a soft-boiled egg on top with some salt and pepper, just how Paul liked it.

“Thanks, Geo,” he muttered as he watched George put it down on his bedside table. His friend smiled at him, before he left again, and although it was what Paul had wanted, he couldn’t help but feel lonely as the door closed once more.

Sighing, he sat up on the bed, reached for his tea and took a few sips, before moving on to his toast. He ate about half of it, before he put it away again. At least George couldn’t nag at him for not eating (which he did - in the middle of the night when he was supposed to be sleeping, and he could be certain he wouldn’t walk into anyone and have to _talk )._

Next to him on the floor lay his laptop, so he reached for it and plugged in his earphones. It took a few seconds for it to turn on and Paul drank his tea while he waited, pausing occasionally to type in his password and open up Spotify and select his favourite playlist of sad songs, not feeling for anything upbeat or happy or really anything other than absolutely depressing and gut-wrenching, turning up the volume as far it could go without completely ruining his hearing, making him feel every note, every word and every beat down to his core, the bass sounding through to his bones, and for a moment, Paul simply sat there, mug in his hand, laptop on his thighs, head resting against the wall and his eyes closed, listening, feeling - and it helped. He could breathe.  

His browser was still open and Paul clicked on it. His twitter feed opened up before his eyes. He didn’t care enough to read any of it, though, and he merely typed in Dot’s name. His finger, though, paused above the enter key, and finally he deleted Dot’s name and typed in John’s instead.

He hadn’t tried to find the tweet Dot had mentioned during their phone call. He hadn’t really felt the need to know what tweet she had seen about him and John, but now he couldn’t help but be curious. He scrolled through John’s (far too chaotic) twitter until finally he had found what he presumed to be the tweet. Really, there could be no mistake about it.

It was a picture, taken when they had gone out for coffee together after John had returned his notebook. He recognised the tables, the wooden flooring, the geometric rug and the half-eaten chocolate cake in the middle of the table between them, their drinks on either side. Although the photo cut off from his neck-upwards, Paul recognised himself easily with his light blue floral-patterned shirt, and indeed, as Dot had mentioned, his bracelet, which was clearly visible around his wrist as his hand lay curled around his coffee cup, the little name tag, although blurry, clearly reading the name “Paul” if you knew what to look for.

He stared at it, wondering how he hadn’t even noticed John taking this picture. The text above it read _“_ _out for coffee and cake with the cute throw-up guy #notadate #totallyadate_ _”_ with a couple of emojis thrown in. It seemed innocuous enough, it clearly being a joke, though the tone was more teasing than anything else, as if John had hoped Paul would see it in order to get a rise out of him in true Lennon fashion. Obviously, he hadn’t thought it to be a big deal, and Paul couldn’t say he was all too bothered about it, either, even though he probably ought to be, seeing as John had posted it without his knowledge, and he even found himself giving an amused scoff at the hashtags and a roll of his eyes at being referred to as "the cute throw-up guy", it being both embarrassing and oddly flattering at the same time.

On the other hand, he could see why Dot would have drawn the conclusions she had, especially with everything else that had been going on, not just between him and John, but between him and Dot and everything else as well. It wasn’t just John or this one particular tweet that had made her break up with him, he could see that, but it had been the last push she had needed to pull through with something that had long been on her mind.

Sighing, he closed the window and put his laptop down next to him so he could curl up a bit more. He put his half-empty mug of tea back down and stared out of his bedroom window as he simply focussed on the music. He didn’t fall sleep, but neither had he expected that. For the first twenty minutes though, the combination of music, solitude and the - albeit somewhat monotonous - distraction of his window view, had a calming effect on him, allowing him to simply lie there as he thought back on all the good times he and Dot had shared. He thought back on them with a combined feeling of happiness and sadness; happy that they had had those times, filled with laughter, silly conversations and long days, nights and mornings of intimacy, and sad that they were over, though with a faint recognition that indeed, they hadn’t been happy like that together for long time.

However, once that thought came to him, so did the others ones, of which, for a moment, he had managed to rid himself: the sense of loss, the anxiety, the fear, but especially the guilt. He couldn’t dispel those thoughts and feelings, and with a deep sigh, he rolled over onto his back as he felt tears once more burning behind his eyes.

Glancing at his phone on the nightstand, he couldn’t help but wonder if Dot had sent him a message or had tried to call him. He knew it was a silly thing to think, but still he reached for his phone. There was a message, but it wasn’t from Dot, nor even from Jane or his brother or his father - it was from John. Pausing his music, he jerked his earphones out of his ears and stared at the screen. He had given John his phone number a few weeks ago, during their walk through the park after they had gone out for coffee, but until now John had never made use of it, not even during the whole incident with the notebook. Curious, he opened it.

> **John:** _Hi. Not sure if you’re even looking at your phone right now, but how are you doing? Haven’t_ _heard from you at all and judging from what I can hear through the walls, it’s not going too well. John_

Paul stared at the message in surprise, the tone being one of genuine concern, which was not something he had expected from John, though the man had surprised him in that regard before. The message had been sent only four minutes ago and before he had even seriously thought it through, he texted him back.

> **Paul:** _Life’s a fucking drag_

To add to his surprise further, John answered him almost immediately.

> **John:** _Been there. Wanna talk about it?_
> 
> **Paul:** _No… maybe? Idk…_
> 
> **John:** _Come over. Got alcohol too. Tends to help with that feeling of “drag”_
> 
> **Paul:** _Not sure alcohol is smart rn_
> 
> **John:** _Alcohol is always smart, darling_
> 
> **Paul:** _Not for me. I’m not supposed to. Not when I’m like this anyway_
> 
> **John:** _Why’s that??_
> 
> **Paul:** _Reasons_
> 
> **John:** _Seriously tho... come over._
> 
> **John:** _Paul?_
> 
> **John:** _You still there?_

Paul bit his lip as he stared at John’s messages, unsure what to answer - unsure what he even _wanted_ to answer. Either way, John’s invitation had its appeal, if only because drinking and forgetting about Dot for a while _did_ sound attractive and because John was the only person who would actually let him do so and would be more than happy to help him along, unlike George, Ringo, Jane or anyone else who knew anything about his past. And at the same time, perhaps that fact that John didn’t know about any of that, except what he had very superficially told him three days ago, was what made the idea of talking about it that much more appealing, to just have someone who didn’t know, and who wouldn’t try to offer solutions or answers or kind words of understanding, and who would just sit and _listen_. Oddly enough, it was both of these things that made it so utterly terrifying to actually take him up on his invitation.

> **John:** _You know, it’s not fair letting me hear you cry through the walls when I can’t do anything about._ _At least do it here so I don’t have to feel so horribly hopeless_
> 
> **John:** _Frankly, it’s just plain rude_

Paul let out an involuntary chuckle at that and finally replied, his fingers hovering above the ‘send’ button only for a moment before he tapped it.

> **Paul:** _I’ll be over in a sec_

***

John’s flat was just as messy as it had been the last time he had been over, though there was no cliché teen drama film on the telly. Instead, the tv was off, the curtains were drawn, and an old vintage record player stood on the floor in the middle of the room with a bunch of records scattered around it from the 50s, 60s and early 70s, though Paul recognised some that were even older as well - ones his dad used to listen to.

Hearing them as often as he had as a kid, he had grown to love the music, though he rarely listened to it now. The music brought back too many memories, most of which hurt too much to think about, such as of those late evenings when he and his brother Mike would be awoken by the sound of music and laughter, and would sneak downstairs to see their mother and father dancing around the living room, singing songs like “I’ll See You In My Dreams” or “It Had To Be You” to each other. Or those times he had heard his dad sing them from memory in the car whenever they got lost on long rides, the rain clattering on the metallic roof of their old white Ford, as their mum tried to read the map. Or the one time shortly after their mum’s death, when Paul had crept downstairs one night as he hadn’t been able to sleep, only to see his father sitting at the kitchen table, crying to himself, as those songs had played. It hurt too much to listen to, even now, after so many years.

Still, the knowledge John appreciated those old jazz songs as well, came as a welcome surprise. He had never met anyone his age who had loved those old songs, and he certainly hadn’t expected John to be into them, having framed him as a pure rock ‘n roll only kind of guy. But once more, John proved him wrong.

John beckoned him to take a seat, before he disappeared into the kitchen to get him something to drink, not leaving Paul any chance to protest, or at the very least insist he wanted something non-alcoholic. Sighing, he took a seat on the couch as told and sat there awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do or say, wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t have come after all. His body was shaking and he tried holding onto himself to get himself to stop as he did some light breathing exercises. _What was he doing here?!_

“You okay?” John’s voice sounded next to him, and Paul looked up at him with a start as he was jerked right out of his thoughts, his eyes wide as John looked down at him from behind his thick-rimmed glasses with a worried expression, though a half-amused smile was soon added to the mix at his reaction. He handed him a glass of water - Paul was relieved John had listened to him in that regard and did not insist on giving him alcohol - and moved around the couch to take a seat beside him. “You look pretty horrible,” he remarked.

“I feel pretty horrible…” Paul answered, taking a sip of water as he tore his eyes away from the older man, somewhat embarrassed by the state he was in. He had seen himself in the mirror before he had left: pale face, red eyes with heavy bags under them, hair an untameable mess, light stubble covering his jaw, not to mention the clothes he had thrown on: an old pair of jeans and an oversized charcoal jumper. He didn’t even remember when he had washed them last. He was a mess. “Sorry for ruining your afternoon,” he added, gesturing at the collection of records on the floor before them, but John was quick to shake his head.

“There was hardly an afternoon _to_ ruin, if I’m honest” he said, smirking in the hope to get at least a hint of a smile out of Paul. When he just kept staring at the floor, however, John gave up. “How are you holding up, anyway?”

Paul shrugged and took another sip of water. “It’s alright,” he said, but John didn’t buy it.

“I heard a strange rumour that talking about stuff that bothers you can actually help you feel better sometimes,” he said. Again, Paul merely shrugged.

“So they keep saying.”

Rather than pressing him about it, though, as George and Jane had done, John stood up from the couch and went to kneel by the record player, where he began flipping through his albums. Paul watched him in silence, eyes digging into his back as waited to see what he was doing. It was clear he had planned on this being a day in: his hair was ruffled and the black shirt he was wearing had to be at least a couple years old, judging by the wear on it, as were his black jeans, and Paul once more considered leaving, feeling like he was intruding. The moment he had been about to say something, however, the familiar light crackling sound of a record being put on filled the room, followed by the gentle, dreamlike sound of early 1930s music that made Paul sit back down. A gentle piano and a crooning female voice sounded. Paul recognised it  immediately.

“Not exactly Rock ‘n Roll, I know,” John admitted with a chuckle as he turned back around to him, and even in the dim light of the room, Paul could see the slight hint of a flush on his cheekbones.

“Ruth Etting. My dad used to listen to her.”

“You know it then?” John asked, practically lighting up when Paul nodded, a broad, almost relieved smile appearing on his lips. “My aunt likes it,” he said, “she is mostly into the classical stuff - like Tchaikovsky and Chopin and all that - but she and my uncle could appreciate this. I guess it kind of rubbed off on me.”

Paul smiled weakly. “Not a bad thing to rub off on you, though, is it?” he managed and he swallowed thickly as his own memories came back to him. He could see them vividly, his mother and father, dancing, singing, laughing… _happy_ _._ He had imagined himself and Dot like that a few times, some years in the future, dancing late at night after the children had gone to bed, a moment of gentle intimacy, just the two of them, alone but together. Perhaps with a big fluffy dog running around their feet. Now, though, that dream had gone and seemed further away than ever.

“What are you thinking about?” John asked from across the room.

“Dot,” Paul answered, breathless, forcing the word out, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his thighs as he ran a hand through his hair with a deep sigh.

“Anything in particular?” John pressed on, but Paul shrugged, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. There was so much more, so much he could tell John, but he couldn’t get the words past his lips. Even though he wanted to say it, it was as if something inside of him was squeezing his throat shut, rendering him incapable. All he could manage was a faint croaking sound, which he hoped got lost on the way to John’s ears. If John did hear it, he didn’t say.

“You know what I don’t understand?” he asked instead, and again Paul shrugged in response as he tried taking deep breaths to calm himself, repeating what he and George had done together. _In… one… two… three... Out… one… two… three._ God, he felt so stupid.

“You were with her for over three years, you were _engaged_ to her, seemingly for no reason at all except that you were in love with her, and yet when I met you, you didn’t even know what your relationship with her was! You barely mentioned her, you barely talked to her, nor did she seem to be much of a concern to you, except when it came to shutting _me_ down or because you _had_ to call her. But now you’ve broken up, you suddenly act like you cannot live without her!”

“I- I just miss her. We were together for over three years! You don’t just get over that, you know. You might never have had a long relationship like this, but I have and it’s not that simple!” Paul snapped and froze as he realised what he had said. For a moment, John didn’t say anything, and Paul feared he had upset him, but then he spoke again, his voice softer, but no less insistent.

“No, perhaps I haven’t. But I can see there’s more to it than that, Paul,” he pressed on, and huffed in frustration when Paul refused to say anything in response. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” John said as he moved to sit back down ot the couch beside him again.

Paul blinked up at him at those words, his brain needing a moment before it had properly processed what John had said.

“E-excuse me?”

“Christ, Paul, you said it yourself not three days ago! It’s not healthy to keep things bottled up like this. It’s what fucking got you to break down in the first place, and yet that’s exactly what you’re doing now!”

Paul jerked at the forcefulness of the remark, his body tensing up as he looked away from John and back down at his water glass, refusing to meet his eyes. John, however, had already caught on.

“That’s what it’s about, isn’t it?” he said, realisation flashing in his eyes. “The breakdown?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” Paul murmured, and hastily placed his glass on the coffee table, as he started to get up and leave like he should have done from the moment he had first considered it. John, however, was swift and pressed him back into the couch with ease, his hand firmly pushing against Paul’s chest to make him sit back down, urging him to stay.

“Paul, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything. Nobody can,” he said, and Paul huffed in return, as he wiggled under John’s hand to no avail, lacking the energy to put up a proper fight.

“I don’t think you could help, even if you wanted to,” he said, as he finally let his body go slack and surrendered to John’s forceful, yet oddly calming restraint, that hand giving him something real to focus on. For a moment, it remained quiet between the two of them, the only sounds between them being the music from the record player and Paul’s heavy breathing, as he sat sulking.

“You’re not the only one with a crappy past, you know,” John said after a while, breaking the silence. When Paul didn’t respond, he continued, “I’m not going to judge, whatever it is you went through. I mean, I didn’t have a mental breakdown or anything, but I had my own problems. It’s not exactly easy when your dad walks out on you and your mum when you’re three years old.”

Paul looked up in shock, his eyes widening and his pout vanishing as he stared at John. “What-” He couldn’t finish the question, but John it answered anyway, nodding.

“Yeah. Bastard left us without warning one day and I never saw him again. Not that I saw much of my mum either. After my asshole father left, it was decided it would be better for me to grow up with my aunt and uncle. Mum couldn’t handle raising me on her own, so that was that, and then she got married to some dipshit and got herself run over by a car.”

“Jesus, John! H-how old were you?!” Paul asked. John’s hand lost some of its force, allowing him to sit up more.

“Seventeen,” John answered in a tone completely devoid of emotion, his hand falling away from Paul’s chest completely and dropping between them on the couch. It was a tone Paul knew all too well, having used it himself more often than he could count. He knew what it meant, the pain that lay behind it, still hurting, ever-present. He didn’t have to ask the question that followed - he already knew the answer - but he asked it anyway.

“Did she-”

“Die?” John finished for him, spitting the word out like poison. Paul nodded, body twitching at the violence behind that one little word. “Almost instantly. Worst of it is… we had only just started to get to know each other again. There’s so much she didn’t know, stuff I wanted to tell her, but that drunk fuck behind the wheel ruined it all. Not the first death I had to deal with either. My uncle had passed away a couple of years before that, so I only have my auntie left now, and my daddy dearest is dead to me either way. If he is alive, I don’t want to know.”

“Shit, John… That- that’s horrible.”

“Aye. Finding out I was gay during all this didn’t make it any easier, either. But at least I didn’t have to deal with homophobic parents or anything. My aunt’s pretty accepting, even if it took her awhile to get used to the idea, and uncle George helped me through a lot before his heart decided to stop working. But it was still hard. Got called some names at school as well, and one kid tried to beat me once, but I got that to stop pretty quickly. I could hold my own, thankfully, so they didn’t dare anymore after that kid tried and ended up with a black eye, a broken lip and a bloody nose despite being two years older than me. It got me suspended for a week, but it was worth it.”

Paul listened in silence, remembering the times in school when he had been bullied for being bisexual. For him, too, it hadn’t been as bad as some other stories he had heard, having been lucky enough to have been popular, with a strong group of close friends who had looked out for him. Especially George had been great, always ready to stand up for his friends and not being afraid to fight for them either. The guy, despite his slender, bony frame, had a lot of fight in him, and Paul clearly remembered the first time George had stood up for him. He had just come out and George had head-butted a guy at a party, seemingly out of nowhere. He had refused to tell anyone why at first, but when they had walked home together, he had explained the guy had been making comments. Paul had felt, and still felt, eternally grateful towards his mate.

John, however, appeared to have mostly been alone in that, and Paul couldn’t even begin to imagine what he would have done without George or any of his friends, or even the girls that had flocked around him and stood up for him in their own ways, because they thought he was “interesting”. At least he had been lucky in that respect.

“And of course, my first real crush had to be an utter joke as well,” John continued after a brief moment of silence, his eyes darting towards one of the - what Paul assumed to be - bedroom doors, as he let out a sigh. “The guy wasn’t only straight, but was also my best friend, and therefore _totally_ off limits. Finally, he got off with some German girl and abandoned me. Anyway, the point is, I know what it’s like to have the world continuously shit all over you.”

He reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his package of cigarettes, and took one out to place between his lips, before throwing the package aside and reaching for his lighter. His hands trembled as he lit up his smoke, but Paul didn’t comment on it, knowing what it was like to tell your entire crappy life’s story to someone like that. He watched as John blew out the smoke, eyes fluttering closed as he leaned back into the couch with a pleased hum, and Paul could almost feel that intoxicating sensation of the nicotine entering his body, momentarily taking the darkness away. In that moment, he longed for that sensation, but knew better than to give in.

He understood why John needed it, though; he had been there and had done things that had been way worse. He knew how John felt, and perhaps, he faintly came to hope in that moment, though it was more a case of wishful thinking that anything based too firmly upon reason, John could understand him too.

“I- I don’t think I would’ve been alive if it hadn’t been for Dot,” he finally said, mouth dry and his heart pumping rapidly in anticipation of John’s reaction, never having admitted that to anyone before, not even to Dr Collins, though he didn’t doubt the man had his suspicions. John turned to him at the confession, shock passing briefly over his face, before he checked himself and took another drag from his cigarette. He didn’t say anything, and instead waited for Paul to continue without exhibiting any kind of preliminary judgement, for which Paul was grateful. Taking a deep breath, he averted his eyes and looked down at his glass as he thought of what to say, John’s curious stare only making him more nervous.

“My- my mum… she’s dead too,” he said, choking on the words, the sounds getting stuck in his throat as he tried to force them out. He tried to take a deep breath, but his breathing was haggard and uneven, making it difficult.

“I- I don’t know how- how to… I mean, I- I’ve never… I don’t usually-” he tried to explain, but had to cut himself off, the words causing his throat to squeeze shut, and shook his head in defeat. He couldn’t do it. Never had he been able to talk about this, so why would he think he could now just because John knew what it was like to lose your mother at a young age?! He jerked in surprise as John lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I know, Paul,” the man said, not pulling away his hand. His voice was soft and gentle, soothing yet with an inherent lightness to it that put Paul more at ease. “I don’t expect you to David Copperfield this shit. Just take it easy. Don’t think about it.”

Paul nodded and tried to force himself to relax as he took another deep breath. His throat was dry, so he picked up his glass again to take a few more sips of water, before putting it back down, preferring to have his hands free. Talking about personal stuff - and especially stuff like this - had never been easy for him and even with Dr Collins it had taken months before he had finally been able to say more than a few sentences per session. But this time, he wanted to talk about it, and even if he didn’t know how to, he would try. He had to.

“Mum… She had breast cancer,” he said, glancing up at John for his reaction as he tried to control his breathing, his fingers already twining together. John’s expression, however, was blank and patient, apart from the slight hint of surprise, which Paul had expected, and he simply waited for Paul to continue, allowing him to take his time. It threw Paul off balance for a moment, but with some effort, he managed to continue his story, much to his own surprise. “My brother Mike and I… we weren’t told. I mean, we knew she was ill, but- but not _that._ We just thought she’d get better again, you know, like mothers always do. But she didn’t. And when she died... Mike and I had been visiting family up in Scotland, and when we came back, she… she was gone. I was fourteen.”

“Christ… That- That’s pretty fucking shit,” John muttered, unsure what else he could say, but Paul just shrugged.

“They wanted to protect us, but... I wish they hadn’t. It- it only made it worse, you know. We never really got over it. And it happened so suddenly. We didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

“What did you do?”

“Locked myself in my room. I- I needed to be alone, away from everyone and everything. It was so surreal. As if we were all in some crappy nightmare, you know.”

John nodded, his hand still firmly gripping Paul’s shoulder, offering silent support.

“What happened then?” he asked, gently pushing him on, and Paul took a deep breath before he continued, the words pressing against the roof of his mouth, wanting to come out, even if they were still half-formed.

“Dad, he- he pretty much lost it. He tried his best, but… he couldn’t. We barely ate, the house was a mess, problems began heaping up; the bills were the worst. Some aunts and uncles tried to help. One even suggested it would be better for me and Mike to stay with them until everything was sorted out. Dad refused, of course. Thankfully. But… he just couldn’t do it on his own.”

“So you started helping him?” John said, his cigarette slowly burning away between his fingers, forgotten. Eventually it grew so short, he had to put it out if he didn’t want to burn his fingers, but John didn’t seem to notice, so Paul did it for him, taking the cigarette as he nodded at the question. John raised an eyebrow at Paul’s ministrations, but didn’t object and watched him closely as he moved to put it out, intrigued, but worried. Paul wished people would stop looking at him like that.

“I-I knew I had to, not just for my own sake but for Dad’s and Mike’s as well. Dad, he… Mum’s death just broke him. I- I didn’t have a choice.”

“No, you didn’t,” he could hear John mutter in reply and although it wasn’t much, that recognition, the acknowledgment that indeed he could not have done otherwise, helped. It offered a sense of relief Paul had unwittingly been yearning for since he had first made that decision. It was a strange feeling, and it almost made him well up for reasons he barely understood himself, but he remained strong and pushed the tears back.

“I did almost everything then. As much, at least, as I could,” he continued, pausing to take a deep breath to calm himself, “I cooked, I cleaned, I did laundry, I dealt with the mail, and I even helped dad with the finances. I also took up a part-time job as a paperboy to help out with some money issues. During the day, I went to school and in the evenings I buried myself in homework. Music and art were the only things I had that was just for me, and even for that I barely had any time. As long as I got five minutes in per a day, I was happy. I didn’t even have time to think about Mum.”

“Did it help?”

“Yeah... after a while. Dad got better and went back to work. He also began to cook and clean and work in the garden again, and Mike could keep doing whatever he wanted. That was all that mattered.”

“It could hardly have been good for you, though, could it?”

“If it had been, I wouldn’t be here telling you this,” Paul replied with a sad smile as he glanced up at John, hoping for a somewhat humorous effect. Instead, though, it had the opposite. He sighed and shook his head as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face, and let himself fall back into the couch again. He covered his eyes with his hands and lay there for a few seconds, sighing as John began to massage his shoulder, squeezing it and rubbing it with his fingers, his hand sliding into the neck opening for a better grip, holding him. It felt good, and Paul leaned into the touch, cocking his head to the side, wanting more, but being unsure how to ask.

“I-I didn’t realise then how much it was already fucking with me,” he said with another deep sigh, his hands dropping slack in his lap. “It’s surprisingly easy to ignore your feelings when you bury yourself in work. Especially when everyone keeps praising you for it, for being so strong, telling you how they wished their children were more like you. It’s all bullshit. There’s nothing strong about it.”

“It’s strong that you helped your family,” John suggested, an uncharacteristic kindness in his voice, but Paul scoffed at it.

“Not when you use it merely as an excuse, so you don’t have to deal with anything.”

“Fuck off, Paul! You _had_ to help out. Even I can see that. You shouldn’t have needed to, but your dad certainly couldn’t have done it on his own.”

“At first, perhaps, yes. But even when Dad started taking over some of the chores again, I kept ignoring those feelings, pushing them even further down, as I just... kept going. If anything, I started actively seeking out ways _not_ to think about it: I spent time with friends, worked on art projects for school, chased boys and girls, and when there wasn’t anyone around to distract me, I put all my energy into learning guitar and reading books, just so I wouldn’t start thinking. I knew it was stupid, even then I knew that, but… not doing it… that was far scarier.

“Later, sex became another way for me to lose myself. It’s… hazy, you know? You stop thinking and you just… feel. You stop existing and all there is, is you, the other person, and that heavy sense of lust that just… takes everything over. My first girlfriend was barely even a real girlfriend, and when my first boyfriend came along… It all became even easier. He intrigued me. Dead handsome, tough, leather jacket… He was a year older than me. He was artistic, irresponsible, not to mention a bloody nuisance… He took me to parties, got me to start drinking, offered me my first cigarette, introduced me to pot. The sex was easy, frequent, harsh even, and just plain addictive. He was my escape; when I was with him, I could be everything I couldn’t be at home. With him, I could just… exist.”  

“So, bad boys _are_ your type,” John remarked with a knowing grin, raising an eyebrow at the smirk Paul shot him in return. After all, John wasn’t wrong, and that time with Dana - a name as sexually ambivalent as the guy himself, something that had appealed to Paul immensely when he had first met him - had been one of the few times he had actually been happy - or at least thought he had been. He had made him feel alive. But feeling alive wasn’t the same as feeling happy. It had taken him a while to figure that out.

Still, he wished John didn’t have the confirmation, knowing there was no way he was just going to let it rest. And sure enough, it didn’t take John longer than a second to change his grin into a flirtatious smirk as he leaned a little closer. “That what attracted you to me as well, then?” he asked, shooting him a wink, but instead of seducing Paul, it only made him laugh.

“If anything that’s what I _didn’t_ like about you,” he said, his laughter slowly dying down into an amused chuckle, “I had quite enough of what I thought was your sort.”

John gasped dramatically at that, which only made Paul chuckle more.

“You _thought_ was my sort?” he asked, pretending to be overly offended, and Paul shook his head in return.

“You’re not half as bad as you make yourself out to be, Mr “I-listen-to-Ruth-Etting”. I can assure you _he_ didn’t listen to any of that stuff. Nor did he write nonsense poetry or would he have sat here listening to me talk about this for as long as you have. Nor would he ever have worn a shirt with pink glitter on it. Nor-”

“Alright! Point taken! You’re hurting my ego here, sweetheart. But tell us, why _did_ you break up, then? If he was _that_ cool.”

“It wasn’t a long time thing. It was never meant to be either. Not to mention that neither of us was very erm… _loyal_ to one another. What we had wasn’t exactly healthy, nor anything that could’ve lasted very long even if we had wanted it to. Guys like that aren’t what I’m looking for in a more serious relationship,” Paul explained, and John nodded, looking a bit more pleased with himself.

“Alright. Continue,” he said with lick of his lips, and with one last roll of his eyes, Paul did as told.

It was strange how easy it was to talk to John. Even with Dr Collins it had taken a while before he had started to open up and even then it had taken numerous sessions for him to even get where he was now. But with John it was easy. He felt that even if John’s own experiences had been different, he could at least somewhat understand what he had been through, because he had lost his mother too. He knew what that felt like, he knew how much it hurt to have that constant sense of guilt and abandonment nag at you, or to have that everlasting gap inside of you no matter how much time passes. He didn’t want to admit it, but it felt good to talk about it. Not to mention that John had even managed to make him laugh, despite everything that was going on in his head right now. The man was… truly something.

“Well,” he said, struggling for a moment with how to continue, “I met Dot during the summer before my final year, and, well… from the moment I first started talking to her… it was different, you know? With her. It was summer and Mike and I had been playing football in the park one evening and she had joined in and we got talking and I just… I- I don’t know what it was, but I knew I had never felt that way about anyone before. She was… nice. Pretty, open, level-headed. Perhaps somewhat shy, but in a cute way, and was also actually really cool once she got comfortable. And once we started dating… It just wasn’t like anything I’d had before.”

John let out an unhappy huff in reply, whether to let Paul know he was listening or for some other reason, Paul couldn’t be sure, though it was clear John didn’t much care to hear about his infatuation with Dot. His jealousy made Paul grin.

“My dad, meanwhile-” he said as to quickly move on, “-had been pushing me to get a degree in medicine after school and become a doctor. He had always wanted me to. Had for as long as I can remember. I- I guess he liked the idea of it, his eldest son, a high-paid doctor. Not to mention that it would mean I would never have to worry about money ever again. That I wasn’t keen on it… I think he just hoped I’d change my mind. And… I did. Kind of.

“After Mum’s death, I began to understand my dad more and more, you know? And then when Dot came along and it got serious… I guess it just made me realise how important it was for me to be able to support my own family when it would come to that – with Dot or someone else, it didn’t even matter at that point. And apart from medicine, the only thing that had ever piqued my interest was art and music. So… yeah… the choice was an easy one at that point. I mean, what would I even do with a degree in art or music? So… I chose medicine. For Dad, for Dot, for my future family… for Mum. I- I wanted to make her proud… Even if she wasn’t here anymore.”

He paused for a moment, expecting John to have something to say in response to that, but the man remained silent, eyes still fixed on Paul, watching him closely, but without that smug grin from before. A light frown lay on his brow and Paul could see the man’s lips twitching, as if he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure precisely what or how.

It surprised Paul. Whenever he had told anyone about this, they had always said _something_ _,_ whether they agreed with him and praised him for taking the smart, responsible option, or whether they told him he shouldn’t have studied medicine if he hadn’t wanted to and that there would’ve been other options he could have considered, other career paths that might have suited him better, while still offering him that security. But they didn’t understand. Whether John did, he couldn’t say, but it was clear he thought about it differently than most.

“As for university itself… well… it er… it wasn’t great, as you can probably imagine,” Paul continued, still watching John closely, hoping to be able to read something off his face, something that could tell him what he thought. “The subject didn’t interest me, the books were dense, the lectures were boring, making it difficult to concentrate, and the other students weren’t people I would usually hang out with. I had nothing in common with my two roommates, and only got on reasonably with one. The other despised me - I don’t know why - but he mostly ignored me and kept out of my way, so it wasn’t too bad.”

“He sounds like a twat,” John remarked, and Paul smiled at the sentiment.

“I’m sure the feeling would’ve been mutual,” he said at which John muttered something unintelligible under his breath. It would have made Paul laugh if he hadn’t felt as down as he did.

“I kept mostly to myself, though. To be honest, looking back at it now, I know I was stupid for not just giving up as soon as I realised I didn’t like it there - that it wasn’t where I was supposed to be. But… I just didn’t even question it. I simply ignored all those feelings, like I always had, and kept going: I read everything I was supposed to read, studied everything I was supposed to study, went to all the lectures, kept on top of my work, and even took a part-time job at the university cafe during the weekends for some extra cash. I dropped my art and music, because I thought it distracted me too much, didn’t go to any parties, and didn’t have any friends either, apart from one or two superficial acquaintances. It- It wasn’t a fun time. Especially because nothing I did even seemed to matter.”

“What do you mean, it didn’t seem to matter? I thought you needed to do all this?”

“No, I needed to do all this _well_ _._ Which-”

“-You didn’t.” John finished, realisation only hitting him halfway through the sentence.

Paul nodded and let out a deep sigh as he turned his head to look at John more closely, letting it rest on the backrest of the couch.

“I realised very quickly I wasn’t going to do well. The subjects were tough and uninteresting and the lectures were not just hard to focus on, but when I did focus, they only seemed to confuse me more! I tried studying harder, but the feedback I got on course work didn’t improve and the more I studied, the more stressed I became, the less I slept. I lived on coffee - the stronger the better - anything to keep me awake. When I did sleep, I- I got nightmares. Mostly about Mum, but I was used to those, but also about university and Dot. I- I don’t really remember them, but… for a while, there was not one night that I didn’t dream something horrible.”

“Jesus, Paul…”

“That was hardly even the worst. After a while… I-I couldn’t really cope with it anymore, you know. The constant pressure… At first I started smoking and drinking again, but it only made me feel worse. Then I heard about a guy selling pot and… well… I hadn’t done it since I was sixteen and at first I wasn’t sure, but… I got desperate, so I picked it up again and…. It helped. Somewhat. It helped me cope with the stress, the constant fear of failure. It helped me relax. Eventually I was either high, sleeping or studying, and began isolating myself more and more. I didn’t really talk to anyone and after the lectures, I just want straight home. The days began rolling into one. I- I don’t know how much I slept then, but it couldn’t have been more than a few hours a night.”

“Dot noticed. Of course she did. She- she saw I wasn’t looking after myself. She smelled the alcohol and pot on me whenever she came over, but I just pretended everything was fine and told her not to worry about me. I- I wasn’t the best boyfriend then. I was snappish, controlling, possessive, absent, yet always demanding… But she stuck with me, and when she was around… it helped. As long as we didn’t talk about me. I didn’t talk much to Dad either. Mostly out of shame. Especially after I got my first grades back. They- They weren’t good.

“As for the last few months… I barely remember anything that happened. I barely ate, I didn’t go out, I was high almost constantly, and even that one roommate who hated me began to get worried. Of course, that only annoyed me, so we just ended up fighting whenever we saw each other. I- I wasn’t in the right state of mind. But then things got even worse. Dot, she- she… She got pregnant.”

“Pregnant?!” John exclaimed and Paul jumped at the sudden outburst beside him. He hadn’t realised how silent it had been around them as he had told John all of that, the record having ended. He had barely even realised he had been talking until John’s sudden exclamation, having completely lost himself in those old memories, reliving those same thoughts and feelings once more. Instinctively, he cowered away from the older man, pulling away from his hand, at which John quickly calmed himself.

“Shit, I didn’t mind to scream,” he muttered, but when he reached out for him again, Paul pushed him away. John took the hint and took some distance, giving Paul the space he needed.

“No. It’s not that. I… I just…” Paul tried, but didn’t know to continue that sentence.

“Paul? Are you okay?” John asked, tentatively shuffling a little closer as Paul took his head in his hands with a long frustrated groan, once more leaning forward as he let his elbows rest on his thighs. He felt sick, but he didn’t try to push John away this time, and let out a shaky sigh of relief when John placed a careful hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles at the small of his back, as he kept a close eye on him. Paul’s mind, however, was swimming, and he felt his body sink deeper into the couch, holding him captive.

“With Dot pregnant... I just… couldn’t handle it,” Paul spoke, his voice quiet and hoarse, as if someone was squeezing his throat shut. “My life was going to shit and… there was no way I could be looking after both Dot _and_ a kid. I- I completely broke down when Dot left that evening. _Pregnant with my child_ _._ I- I remember thinking that - those same words echoing over and over again in my head. I couldn’t get them to shut up and that phrase didn’t leave me for a good couple of weeks, coming back to me with every woman I saw. She didn’t even have to look like Dot; I just heard those words. _Pregnant with my child_ _._ Everything that had happened over those years came back to me, the guilt and abandonment over my mother’s death, the constant stress about everything and nothing, the exhaustion, both mentally and physically, the endless feeling of responsibility I felt for _everyone_ and _everything …”_

He paused, tears once more forming in his eyes at the memory of those days, the blackness that had gathered around him and finally forced its way inside of him then, returning to him once more now. John’s hand was still rubbing circles on his back and he tried to focus on that. He leaned into it, his body moving closer towards John, needing the contact to ground him, humming as John slid his hand under his jumper, touching his naked skin. It was the only thing that kept him from running out and locking himself in his room again. He felt strangely like throwing up, but he swallowed it back down.

“I- I don’t remember much from the week that followed - just snippets,” he continued, voice trembling and shaking as he sat staring at the floor. “Dr Collins said that was normal. But I remember feeling lost, like the world went on without me. I- I think I went to the doctors with Dot at some point, for the baby, but I barely registered anything while I was there. I was too numb, not to mention utterly exhausted and on edge. We must have decided to keep the baby and get married then as well, but how and when that happened, I don’t remember,” Paul said, the words flowing out from his mouth uncontrollably now. He didn’t want to stop it, but he doubted he would even be able to if he tried. John just held him and sat in silence as he listened. It wasn’t much, but in that moment, it was all Paul needed. He wished he could tell him, but he couldn’t control his tongue.

“One- One day, I just… collapsed. Just like that. I- I don’t remember what triggered it but- Dot found me. I was lying on my bedroom floor, crying, muttering nonsense, my body trembling all over. The whole place stank of pot and dirty dishes. My books and notes and half-finished essays lay scattered all around the room, most of it complete nonsense – utterly illegible. I- I can’t imagine what it would have been like for her to see me like that.

“To make matters worse, I had locked the door to my room – why I don’t know – but she managed to break in with the help of one of my housemates. When she finally got to me, I- I didn’t respond to her. I- I just lay there, wide-eyed, spacing out, shaking… unresponsive and yet somehow highly aware of what was going on around me. She called my dad and sat with me while she waited. She- she held me. She held me, and refused to let go, even when my dad arrived and decided to take me home right away.”

“Fucking hell, Paul…”

“I quit university that same day - Dad made me - and I had to see a psychiatrist. I-I was an utter mess, burned-out, depressed, utterly incapable of feeling anything, while at the same time feeling everything too much. And Dot stood by me. She took care of me, she helped me bring some structure into my life, she went with me to appointments and made sure I took my medication, and all that while struggling with her own issues as well - her parents didn’t like the idea of us keeping the baby, especially not with the state I was in, but she didn’t care.

“She sounds wonderful,” John muttered and although Paul could hear a slight bitterness in his voice as he said that, he, at the same time, sounded genuinely thankful for her, and Paul could only agree.

“She was,” he said, turning his head to look at John and being struck by the softness of the man’s eyes as they met, filled with compassion and worry, while also exhibiting a slight sense of sadness that threw Paul off. It was different from the usual pity he recognised in people whenever they learned about all this, though there was a sense of relief in there as well, which together created a confusing picture that somehow made perfect sense to Paul. It was almost like regret, but different.

“She helped me get better. Even when I did fall back, she was there for me. She would come over any time, day or night, and would be there to catch me, all while promising to stay with me, telling me that she loved me, and that we could get past this and start over. She never gave up on me,” Paul admitted and John smiled in response.

“I’m glad you had someone like her to look after you,” he said, and Paul smiled sadly at that, the truth of how all that ended tugging at his heart. Just looking at John, however, made it easier, and something inside of him made him want to reach out for him, but he didn’t.

“She miscarried.”

“Oh,” John said after a moment of silence, his brow knitting together as his hand halted on Paul’s back, not knowing what else he _could_ say to something like that.

“She fell one day. She had been carrying an armful of laundry down the stairs when she tripped over a bit of cloth that had been trailing down, causing her to slip and tumble down the stairs,” Paul explained, his throat dry as he described it, the image floating before his eyes, unforgiving.

“H-how did you hear?” John managed, and Paul swallowed thickly before answering.

“She told me herself,” he said, “she had been at home when it happened and her parents had brought her to the hospital. They had called my dad while they were there, but they hadn’t wanted to tell me yet, being worried it would have a negative effect on me.”

“Did it?”

“Yes. It couldn’t not, you know, something like that. Dot, she… she didn’t dare to tell me at first. My dad took me to visit her once she had been released from the hospital. When I came into her room, she was crying. Apparently she had been afraid I would blame her for what happened and would think she had done it on purpose.”

“Jesus! Why would she think that?”

“I- Her mother said it could be the aftermath of the miscarriage, but… I know I hadn’t been a great boyfriend...”

“But... you- you wouldn’t have said something like that, would you?”

“Not intentionally. Never intentionally. But… I don’t know. It shocked me, yes. Later she said she hadn’t been thinking straight, but… you’re not yourself when you’re in that state. I know I said some horrible things at times, and… I... ” Paul shook his head, unable to finish the sentence. “I never would have thought she would do it on purpose, but the fact that it even so much as crossed her mind that I might… it... I… it fucked me up. And together with the fact that we lost our child…

“It took me a while to get better. But I did and after a while I started to feel more normal again. I wasn’t better or anything, and I certainly still am not now - it will take much longer than that - but I could handle things again. Dot and I, on the other hand… our relationship, it had changed. We called off the wedding and tried to find that old magic again, but we couldn’t. When I decided I wanted to go back to university and study something I was actually passionate about, she only encouraged me, even when I told her I wanted to go to London, away from everything that had happened over the last couple of years. The fact that we would be living apart didn’t even occur to us until someone else pointed it out.

“I think we both thought about breaking up, even then, even if we didn’t talk about it, but… we both still loved each other, even if our relationship wasn’t the same anymore. George said we just needed time to adjust again, but even then I knew it wasn’t really about that. Still, I wasn’t ready to give her up yet.”

“Why not?” John asked and Paul tensed up for a moment at the question. He tried to speak, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he struggled to find the right words and get them over his lips.

“I… I think you know why,” he finally said, and John’s silence told him that, yes, John did know why. Sighing, he straightened his back and moved to sit back with his back against the corner of the couch, pulling his legs up to hug them close to him. John’s hand slid away from him and for a moment Paul was afraid John would leave him, but he remained seated.

“Being apart,” Paul continued, talking into the slight gap between his knees, “we both realised that perhaps things really were over between us. We both met new people, people who caught our interest, even if we initially might have resisted that idea. Dot understood that more than I did, I think.”

Paul glanced up into John’s eyes as he said that last, hoping John would catch up on what he meant, and the brief flicker of a smile that brightened John’s eyes, was enough to tell Paul that he did. The man looked away when Paul kept his eyes fixed firmly onto his, looking almost shy.

“Breaking up with her,” Paul continued with a deep sigh, “it’s… it’s terrifying, you know. I don’t... I- I can’t… I don’t know if I’ll be fine without her. After all she’s done for me...”

“You will be,” John answered right away, eyes still averted, sounding utterly convinced of his own opinion. “You are much stronger than you think, Paul.”

Paul felt a strange tremor inside of him at those words, and felt the sudden urge to cry. Instead, though, he merely whispered a soft “thank you”, at which John smiled and finally shuffled closer to him, so their bodies were nudging together. Paul nudged him back, wordlessly telling him it was okay, and for a while they just sat like that in silence, both fully aware of what this meant.

“How are you feeling?” John asked after a while, nudging Paul again, his eyes finally coming up to meet his. Paul shrugged.

“Exhausted. Relieved too. Restless. But mostly exhausted. Haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Talking helped then?” John asked, and again Paul shrugged, although the faint blush on his cheeks told otherwise.

“I don’t know. I-I’ve never told anyone all that before. At least not like this. It feels... strange.”

“It’s a lot, I know. Do you want to sleep?”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t want to impose… and I don’t think I can anyway,” he said.

It was silent again for a bit, both men just sitting on the couch, staring at nothing in particular as their eyes darted between the floor, their own hands, and each other, catching secret glimpses, and flushing whenever the other caught him looking.

“You know,” Paul broke the silence after a good ten minutes, “once I… No, never mind. It’s stupid.”

“What? What is?”

“No. It’s nothing. Just…”

“Just what?” John pressed on, nudging at Paul’s shoulder with his own.

Paul glanced up at John sceptically, knowing he wouldn’t believe him if he did tell him, seeing as no one else had. George hadn’t, Dot hadn’t..... It was a stupid thing to bring up anyway. _“It’s just your imagination playing tricks on you”,_ is what they would usually say whenever he brought it up. Or some slight variant of it. Even when he first told them what he was going to admit to was silly. But John looked genuinely intrigued. Perhaps he could understand. And he had already gone this far… He gave in.

“I-I know it probably wasn’t real, but… Once I thought I could see her.”

“Dot?”

Paul shook his head, averting his eyes, and gazing at the floor. “Mum.”

John fell silent at that, and although Paul was curious to see what his expression was, just to know whether John thought he was stupid for believing in such things too, like everyone else did, he was too afraid of what he might find if he did.

“Like… Like in a dream, you mean?” John enquired in a tone that sounded more hopeful than curious or confused. Paul shook his head.

“No. I mean, outside of a dream. Like, I could _actually_ see her. In our kitchen. After everyone had gone to bed. I- I hadn’t been able to sleep and had been lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking, when suddenly I thought I heard her singing. When I went downstairs, I saw her. Or so I thought. I-I know it’s stupid-”

“No. It’s not stupid,” John said, in a forceful tone, and paused for a second before he continued in a much softer voice. “I see my mum too sometimes. Or I think so, anyway. I would just see a flash of her red hair, or hear her play banjo, or hear her sing songs when I was about to fall asleep. It’s not real, but-”

“-It’s comforting,” Paul finished for him and John nodded. They sat in silence for a moment, both men contemplating what the other had said, finding comfort in the other’s words, knowing now they weren’t utterly crazy for having had those experiences and for assigning value to them, even if neither believed it had been real. Clearing his throat, John pulled away and moved into a more comfortable position on the other side of the couch, leaning back into it and spreading out his legs in front of him, before he turned to Paul, who was watching him curiously, and beckoned him over.

“Come here,” he said as he slapped his thighs, his voice slightly croaky, betraying how nervous he felt about this, “come lie down.”

Paul raised an eyebrow at that and for a moment sat motionless, staring at John with distrust, fearing he had something wicked planned, though what, Paul couldn’t even begin to imagine, his eyes moving from the man’s face to his thighs and back again. Then, however, he stretched out his body and did as John proposed. He laid down sideways on the couch, his head in John’s lap, facing away from the other man, and he hummed as he felt his body relax into the surprisingly comfortable position, John’s couch being just the right amount of soft and his thighs just firm enough. John’s hand found its way into his hair, causing Paul to tense up for a moment, before he let out a pleased murmur as John began to stroke through it, gently, softly, his other hand coming to land on Paul’s hip.

“I’m sorry you went through all that,” John said after a moment and Paul hummed again in reply.

“Yeah, I’m sorry you had to go through all of your stuff as well,” he said and although he couldn’t see John’s face, he knew he was smiling. John’s fingers felt good as they massaged his scalp, and with every moment that passed, Paul felt his eyelids grow heavier and heavier. He yawned and rubbed at his eyes with his fists, trying to fight it.

“If you want to sleep-” John started, his voice barely a whisper and Paul murmured something inaudible back as he settled a little more into his position, rubbing his head deeper into the strong muscles of John’s thighs, as he curled one of his hands around John’s leg to hold onto him, while he pressed the other against his chest, his eyes falling close.

Sleep came easy to him, and as he finally fell asleep, he thought he could hear music, soft and low, just a voice, barely a murmur. Paul recognised the song and smiled at it, letting it guide him away as he drifted off to sleep.

> _Close your eyes_
> 
> _Rest your head on my shoulder and sleep_
> 
> _Close your eyes_
> 
> _And I will close mine_
> 
> _Close your eyes_
> 
> _Let’s pretend that we’re both counting sheep_
> 
> _Close your eyes_
> 
> _All this is divine_
> 
>  
> 
> _Under a midnight sky_
> 
> _Watching a single star_
> 
> _Thrilled by the beauty up above_
> 
> _Alone just you and I_
> 
> _Hearing a steel guitar_
> 
> _Thrilled by the beauty of our love_
> 
>  
> 
> _Close your eyes_
> 
> _Rest your head on my shoulder and sleep_
> 
> _Close your eyes_
> 
> _And I will close mine_
> 
> _Close your eyes_
> 
> _Let’s pretend that we’re both counting sheep_
> 
> _Close your eyes_
> 
> _All this is divine_
> 
>  
> 
> _Music play_
> 
> _Something dreamy for dancing_
> 
> _While we’re romancing_
> 
> _It’s a love holiday_
> 
> _And love will be our guide_
> 
> _Close your eyes_
> 
> _When you open them dear, I’ll be near_
> 
> _By your side_
> 
> _So won’t you close your eyes?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song John sings at the end is called "Close Your Eyes", performed by Ruth Etting, which was one of John's favourite songs. I read a quote on tumblr from "Conversations with McCartney" by Paul Du Noyer, where Paul talked about John and him both liking these types of songs, saying that: 
> 
> "When I [Paul] met John those were the kind of songs that we’d been listening to. That attracted me to him. I thought, yeah, I love that song. And he’d say, ‘I love this one, or that one.'" 
> 
> So, obviously I had to put it in here. It's a gorgeous song, so look it up if you are interested.


End file.
